The Science of Seduction
by Make A Choice. Shine On
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes works at a gay strip club.
1. A One-Time Mistake

_I am American, so if you're British and in any way offended or disconcerted by something in the dialogue that doesn't quite fit, please let me know so I can fix it. I've done my best. Thank you and enjoy! Criticism is always welcome._

* * *

The first customer of the night was gruff man with piercing green eyes and a face that looked like it had been pummeled numerous times throughout his lifetime. He wasn't ugly. He wasn't pretty, either. The thing that repelled me the most was the stale taste of car oil on his neck that he had failed to wash off after work.

"Where are you from?" he asked, as I leaned closer and slipped my hand beneath his trousers.

"Cumbria."

"A country lad, eh? I can tell. I come from Scotland myself."

Idiot. I've lived in London my entire life.

I bit down on his neck, my brow furrowing from the taste, and the next thing I knew he was moaning like he was the whore. "Lord...I'm gonna have to buy you out for the night if you keep strokin' me like that."

I unclenched my jaw to spit out the usual fiction. "I'm afraid someone has already scheduled that slot."

"Ah, fuck. Tomorrow evening, then?"

"I'm booked all week."

He swore under his breath at the same time that the bell rang, indicating that our hour was up. Before he could pull out another stack of cash and beg me to continue, I extracted myself from him and moved past the red curtains into the center of the club.

I was a house escort at Miss Ginny's, the only all-male strip club in the city of Westminster. They disguise the illegal activities of workers like me by calling us entertainers, but my work often goes far beyond the dancing and stripping acts of the typical employee. In professional terms there is no such thing as a house escort; there is either a house dancer, who works as an entertainer at a specific club, or an escort, who works as a prostitute for an agency that schedules appointments at various locations and allows the escort to be more selective about their customers than, say, the average streetwalker.

I have no interest in working for an agency that would have me conduct my business over the phone and internet as such, but otherwise my job description is very alike to that of an escort. Add the nonsexual entertaining I do at Miss Ginny's, and it would seem most logical to consider me a house escort.

After my encounter with the stale-tasting Scotsman, I moved toward the bar, observing the clientele as they passed. Like a case of particularly annoying acne, Anderson, the head bartender, popped up the moment I sat down and blathered, "Don't tell me you just turned down another customer."

"I wouldn't call it turning them down. I simply tell them I'm already scheduled."

"Sherlock."

"If you keep barking my name like that, they're going to figure out I'm giving a fake one."

"Charlie, then."

"No. I'm Sherman tonight," I replied, and he was too stupid to figure out I was being sarcastic.

"_Sherman?_"

"Stop scolding me, Anderson. You could be doing something useful, like washing dishes."

The wine glass in his hand suddenly imploded into several pieces, and he dropped it in the trash without breaking his glare. "Says the whore who selects his customers instead of the other way around. I cannot fathom that you haven't been fired yet."

"House escort. It's because I'm too good. The clients I do select always come back and ask for me again."

"And the nights you don't find anyone to your liking - which is most of them - you sit around with that irritating smirk on your face and purposely cause me problems-"

"Anderson. Wasn't it you who started this conversation?" I interrupted as he wiped the glass remnants off the counter. He glanced up with the most resolute notion of murder in his eyes that I had ever seen, and more importantly, shut up. I engaged myself in watching the door.

Within a minute I recognized an interesting challenge. "I've just picked my client."

"Who?"

"Early twenties, short hair, practical dress, a bit short but it's adorable," I said, gesturing toward the front at the man who had just walked in. I hated that I had to describe the physical characteristics for anyone to understand, not the interesting things, not the fact that he was a writer and that two tragedies had befallen him in one day and that for those reasons he was reconsidering a relative's proposition for him to go back to school and study in another field, but which one?

"Him? He doesn't even look like he's meant to be here."

"Exactly. He won't be satisfied with anyone else."

"Oh, so you're using this opportunity to be vain."

"I'm not being vain, you imbecile, I'm being observant. He'll be back out the door in moments if I don't intervene."

I rose and started toward him, during which time Anderson managed to disclose my real name to every person sitting on that side of the bar. I restrained the urge to tell him to shut up, only because it would be unbecoming of a successful house escort.

I managed to catch the writer by the arm just as he was turning to leave. He looked at me with bewilderment. "Sorry, I've made a mistake."

"I know. Stay and chat for a moment. I'll make it worth your while."

"You _know?_"

"Well, yes. You look a bit out of place."

"I am. I need to get home."

"If that was true you wouldn't have walked in here in the first place. You thought this was a straight club. If you go home now you're going to sit there feeling sorry for yourself, but instead I offer you the opportunity to sit down with me and chat. I won't come on to you if you don't want me to. Promise."

His expression then was crossed between discontent and astonishment, but it was the good sort of astonishment, the sort that I had been aiming for. Instead of being alarmed, he was intrigued. Which proved my presumption correct.

I watched him scrutinize my skin-tight slacks and sequined black vest and decide against all of his better judgement to trust me. "Alright then, get on with it," he said, and I led him into a small alcove like the one I had occupied earlier in the night, pulling the curtains closed behind us.

He was alarmed, as I had expected, by the intimacy of the chamber. When I placed my hands on his shoulders to coax him into the seat, a look of caution appeared almost instantaneously in his eyes, and I recognized the need to take advantage of the subtleties of seduction in every possible aspect of the night's meeting if I wished to achieve my goal. He was smarter, not to mention straighter, than most, but young. Still vulnerable.

"What's your name?" he asked as I seated myself across the semicircle, leaning one elbow on the ledge above the booth. Courteous. He obviously hadn't adapted to the fact that he was in a strip club, not that I minded. It was usually me who asked for names, often not receiving any inquiry back, to give off the impression that I cared.

"Dimitri. Yours?"

"John." He glanced quickly around the alcove. There was a clear coffee table in the center, small enough not to be obtrusive but large enough to support the weight of two bodies. The seat surrounding it was made of dark red velvet, and although there weren't any speakers past the curtains, evocative music pumped in from the heart of the club, clearly adding to his discomfort. "Won't you get in trouble for, er, not...stripping, or shagging, or whatever it is you do?"

I could not help but smile. "I work on my own terms. If I can please you by talking to you, I will have fulfilled my purpose."

"Right. And what is it, exactly, that you want to talk about?"

"You're distressed. Tell me what happened today."

"We've just met. I hardly think-" John started. Then he appeared to have realized that he was talking to someone who was paid to make people feel loved, who learned new ways of pretending to care every night, who he thought he would never see again in his lifetime. "In short, I was sacked and dumped."

The two tragedies. There was no need to act surprised, as I normally would. This client was different. This client would catch on to my unusual clairvoyance and that's what would keep him hooked; not the sex or even the outward conversation, but the riddle beneath it all. That is, if my supposition continued to prove correct. "Both today?"

"Unfortunately. She started shouting at me before she even knew about it, and I was stressed, so I shouted back. Dug my own grave, I suppose. She never did find out about my unemployment before she ended us."

"That's cruel."

"I don't understand women. Adrienne, for example, is compassionate half the time and unreasonably irascible the other half. There's no in-between. Or there wasn't, anyway."

"It's a common pattern. I don't understand women, either. So I gave up trying," I said, although I had figured out the logic behind women a long time ago. First, if it's not their idea, it's not right. Second, - and this is critical - if they're menstruating, they will demonstrate the opposite of both courtesy and reason in every situation.

"I got sacked because I accidentally burned down my office, and half the department with it," he continued. I was careful not to glance at the burn marks at the end of his tie or the frazzled hair at the base of his neck, but again I reacted casually.

"What happened, were you typing too fast?"

When he got the joke, he laughed. It was a sad, hopeless laugh which ended in a voice close to tears. "No, no, I just left a stack of papers beside my electric kettle, that's all."

"You must have been in a great hurry. You don't seem like the irresponsible type of man."

"I was. I had a deadline with only a couple minutes left to fax an article. I just wasn't thinking."

"The imbeciles running the Guardian allow you to keep a water boiler in your office but don't provide you with a fax machine?"

"Funny, isn't it? I brought in the kettle so I could make tea and-" He stopped and looked me straight in the eyes, his tone changing entirely. "The Guardian, I never said anything about the Guardian."

"No," I responded, smiling. "You didn't."

"Do you have an earpiece in feeding you information about me?"

I displayed each of my empty ears in turn to him.

"How, then?"

"The Guardian is the only newspaper company in London which has had a fire in the past twelve hours."

He seemed satisfied with the answer. I was fascinated by his diligence in caution and quick recognition, so unlike the passive cynicism of the average person. I had been right to choose him.

"I'm glad you weren't harmed. I wouldn't have had the honor of meeting you tonight," I continued.

"There's no need to flatter me."

"I'm not flattering. Do you know how rare it is for a person of quality to stumble in here?"

"You don't seem fond of your job." He had directed the subject of conversation toward me; he was genuinely interested. The first essential milestone was breached. "Why are you a stripper? If you don't mind me asking."

"It's easy, profitable, and fun to manipulate people. I learn so much about human behavior," I responded, choosing to leave out the essential reason that the one known as Miss Ginny had given me a home when I couldn't stand my own anymore. It wasn't important in this context.

"Is that what you're doing right now, manipulating me?"

"Have you in any way acted against your own free will since coming here?"

He considered it. "Besides staying, no."

"There's your answer."

"That's rather impressive, though. I'm not even sure why I'm still here."

"I do," I said, grasping the opportunity with relish. Even this man, this rational man named John who had entered the club by pure mistake, was so easy to delude. He looked at me in puzzlement, so I left the question hanging unanswered on his lips and produced another one. "Was Adrienne a good lover?"

He colored instantly. "I don't think I should talk about her in that way."

"There's no need for moral modesty, especially here. I promise you complete confidentiality regarding this exchange."

"Why are you asking?"

"She must have been, with the compassionate side you spoke of. Does civil compassion equate to passionate intimacy? I wish to learn."

He was reluctant, but fell into the temptation as I knew he would, his eyes suddenly glued to the table. "She was quite passionate, honestly, but sometimes she seemed, sort of, naive toward my own needs. She didn't mean it, of course. But when she was having a brilliant time, I think in her mind it was automatically reciprocated."

"Sometimes it's not. Different people have different needs, different pleasures."

"Of course. And she was wonderful, I'll give her that justice, but for me there was always that underlying notion that she didn't care, that she didn't really see me until afterward." He sighed. "Anyway, it's probably just my imagination."

"I disagree. This corresponds with the other behaviors you've mentioned. She doesn't deserve you."

"I ha-"

"She doesn't deserve to have such control over the heart of someone she fails to appreciate at full value. No one does." In the distraction of the moment I rose and moved to his side of the table. My knees slipped between his as I seated myself, with enough space between the seat and the table so that they were hardly touching. He tried to say something, but I didn't allow it. "Let me ask you something, John. You say Adrienne was wonderful in bed, but naive. Have you ever imagined sharing a bed with someone who carries that same level of passion and attraction, paired with the proclivity to respond to your every need?"

"Of course I've _imagined_it."

"But have you imagined that it could actually happen? Have you imagined that a real person, not a figure in a dream, but a real person walking on this earth could attend to you that way?"

He looked me in the eyes, and his next statement came out in a very weak voice. "I know what you're implying. It's not going to work."

"You can't prove that I'm implying anything, John. Just imagine." My hand rose to his jaw and applied a gentle touch, which he immediately pulled away with his own hand, but only by a few inches clearance. I didn't let it hinder me. "Imagine a woman, if you'd like. It doesn't matter either way. Someone exists who will make you the center of attention. Someone exists who will look at you and make sure you know that they see you, and that they can perceive your emotions and all your desires and will kick their own to the wayside just to make sure that you. Feel. _Magnificent._"

I was looking at him in just that way, and he knew, and he hadn't the will to turn away from it.

"Stop this," he muttered, as I leaned past and pressed my lips to his neck, but he didn't move. I pushed through his grip and held the top of his jaw, letting my nails dig in, distracting him so that he didn't react when I undid his trousers with my other hand. "Stop this, I'm not even-"

"Gay?" I finished, slipping my fingers around his hardening cock. I pulled back and smiled at him. "You don't have to be." I leaned forward and kissed him with force enough to push him back against his seat without allowing him a chance to do anything about it. In a moment I was straddling him.

He was giving in, but it wasn't enough, not for a client like this. He needed something more, something memorable that would tie him to me in such a way that he would willingly come back.

"Could I finish this where you'll feel more comfortable?"

"You mean...home?" he breathed. I could tell that he was in the midst of an internal battle against himself, and losing it. I nodded, running my fingers upward along the center of his shirt beneath his tie. "Right, yes. It's a short walk, but do you have something to cover yourself up with?"

"Of course. We'll go out the back way." I pulled away from him gradually, touching him every step of the way, observing and affecting. He tucked himself back into his pants and adjusted to where the slight bulge wasn't noticeable before following me out. I walked past the bar, ignoring the disgusting sneer on Anderson's face, and grabbed my coat from the back room before exiting.

John walked ahead of me, but with some satisfaction I predicted his steps for most of the way. He would have a place within reasonable walking distance of the Guardian Media Group in King's Cross. Probably a flat, affordable, a typical single-bedroom home for someone just out of university. It would be located in a community both peaceful enough and adequately centered in society to suit the needs of an informative writer. He had natural soils on his clothes from visiting a nearby park often. Within a few turns I perceived the most valid option to be Richmond Crescent, nestled just between both Barnard Park and the Thornhill Rose Garden, about fifteen minutes walking distance from his workplace and about five minutes from mine.

He pulled his keys out of his pocket as we rounded the corner of Richmond, arriving finally at a tall brick building with a pleasant little trellis shading the door. We walked to his room on ground level in a hurry; no doubt he was worried to be seen with me at this hour. I shed my coat and vest the moment we entered and left them hanging over a chair. He left the lights off. When we came before his bed, he seemed unsure of how to handle himself, so I walked up to him and pulled his tie loose. It was a nice tie; blue silk, meant to impress, but instead he had managed to give quite the opposite impression today. He couldn't have been working there long. I laid the tie down on his side table before pulling open the buttons of his shirt.

I felt the urge to kiss him and it was utterly foreign. Generally I tried to keep as far away from my clients' mouths as possible, but they were usually embittered with alcohol. John's mouth was nothing but innocence, reticence, and the underlying citrus of Earl Grey.

"I didn't think this through," he muttered as I peeled off his jacket and tossed it aside. "I don't think I can...you know, um." He was at a loss for words that sounded tasteful enough to be said out loud. I decided I would desensitize him.

"You don't have to fuck me. There are plenty of things one can do with a man's todge and bollocks without going 'round the arse."

He was startled into silence. I had to restrain myself from laughing as I let his shirt fall to the floor and dropped to my knees. His pants were thin enough for me to press my tongue against the front of and hear the effects. I gripped his thighs and pushed him against the side of the bed, feeling upward to his hips and back, shimmying pants and boxers down to his knees.

"Sit down and relax," I told him, knowing he was lost, and he complied. I coaxed him the rest of the way out of his garments, in no hurry, learning and appreciating the contours of his knees and calves. He was watching me with an expression alike to both wonderment and confusion; he had never been touched this way before, never been treated like every part of his body was a sacred thing, not by a woman or anyone else. Most of the people I dealt with would have wanted me to get on with it and pleasure them through purely sexual means. John had no objections, and it was a nice change. It reminded me of how strongly I preferred connotations over the concrete aspects of acts and words and situations themselves. Facts were simple. There was so much hiding behind the facts, unseeable to those who weren't looking or didn't care. An unending trail of knowledge that no one seemed to know how to navigate.

I glanced up at him, tempted to say something but deciding it was better just to look, and thus reminding him that I saw him as a person and not just a body. There was lust in his eyes but it was secondary. He was fascinated. He was lost in a moment outside of reality and for once, I couldn't see inside his mind. The trail was blocked.

I didn't understand. I didn't understand and it was infuriating but I didn't have the time to figure it out, so I did the thing I knew how to do indisputably, habitually. I took him in my mouth and then he lost control, gripping the sheets and letting out soft, incoherent moans every minute or so.

When he came I spit it out on the sheets beside him, only because I knew he wasn't the type to mind. A lot of horny clubgoers would either be offended or suddenly find it necessary to assert their authority, which wasn't often pleasant for me.

I crawled halfway onto his lap, halfway sitting on the bed beside him, waiting patiently for a reaction. He looked over and glanced once at my lips, which was enough for me to deduce that he was hesitant to kiss a mouthful of his own cum. I breached the gap myself and then the hesitance was gone. He kissed me with the appreciation reserved for a romantic lover, as he was still lost in that moment outside of reality, and it struck some part of my heart in a way that I would never forget.

We parted, and he glanced down at the bunched fabric at my groin, and said, "Anything I can do about that?" The tone was then purely professional.

"Don't worry about me. I'll walk it off. If you don't mind."

He nodded. I stood, grabbed my coat from the other side of the room, and left the flat in a practiced manner of covertness. After covering the perimeter of the Barnard Park basketball courts, I was calm, but still perplexed. I had the remainder of the night to investigate and find a way through the roadblock, if even it was still there. Otherwise I would have to wait until he called for me again.

He said nothing when I returned; his back was turned to the front door. I slipped into bed beside him and kept my arms folded against his back in gentle caress.

"How much for your services?" he asked.

"Don't be silly. First-time customers get a free night if they promise to come again." I spontaneously invented this policy.

"How much?" he repeated, without hesitation. I frowned.

Reality had returned, for both of us. He was confused, likely disturbed by his own actions. I had gotten my hopes too high, or my head too big, or both.

"Thirty pounds."

He seemed to have already had his wallet prepared, and he handed me the bills over his shoulder. It gave me no sense of fulfillment.

I laid there for at least fifteen minutes with the money poised between my fingers, lost in thought. Then he said, "You should probably go."

Before I left I made one last mental scope of the house, learning what I could within the space of a few seconds. He had a sister, a supportive one but somewhat of a hypocrite in that she wasn't very successful herself. She was more than likely the relative he had visited earlier today and gotten advice from, leaving him with two pamphlets: one for St. Bartholomew's Hospital and one for the British Army.

He kept the place nice for a man of his age, but wasn't the most creative chef for himself. He'd had a few university friends over for a visit recently, probably for the last time. He wanted to adopt a dog but was too busy for it.

In all, John Watson was a lonely man with a good heart, caught in the newfound and unfortunate conundrum of adulthood. Tonight was a one-time mistake that he would likely not fall into again.


	2. Danger Signs

"I hear you haven't been in tip-top shape recently, Sherlock. Are you doing alright?"

By tip-top shape, I knew that he meant prime business efficiency. Damn Anderson must have snitched on me for not keeping my clients occupied for as long as usual.

"I've been feeling a bit under the weather. It'll pass soon."

"You're sure? I could schedule a doctor appointment. Find out what's wrong."

"A simple virus. It'll pass."

"As long as you're sure it will. I couldn't have you feeling rotten for long, dear."

I nodded, forced a smile, and left the office. Miss Ginny meant well, but I could never fully shake the impulse to puke after witnessing his grotesquely artificial smile. He was getting too old to maintain the act. He could run the club ingeniously, and that was part of his charm, but his days of eponymous sexual glory were long past and he hadn't seemed to have accepted it yet.

It had been a week since I met John. I was still recovering. Recovering from what, exactly? It was not so much the man himself but the questions he posed. My encounter with John had incited in me a continual thought process that found moments to distract me in even the most intimate situations. While exploring a new path I had come across a roadblock, and now that I had been forced to move on I would never have the chance to investigate again.

Ordinarily I would not need to investigate to find the solution; with all the facts laid out, I could build the scenario in my head and solve it from there. This case was more complicated because it involved emotions I did not understand. I understood lust perfectly. I understood the nature of desire perfectly. I did not understand whatever I had seen in John's eyes that night, and I did not understand my reaction to it.

I closed myself in my room and paced, sorting through each moment for the hundredth time. The moment when I was undressing him, looking up at him – everything had seemed so logical at the time. He was used to being treated as insignificant, even inferior, in bed and otherwise. When I considered him the way I did, with appreciation, accentuated by my physical position below him, he had been fascinated. But fascinated didn't seem the right word. I say fascinated because it was a new experience to him, but that's not all it was. Was it my own appreciation reflected back at me? Usually I could detect such things with ease, so that didn't seem plausible. If I knew the answer I would feel it, I would _know_. God damn it.

And when he said I should go, it wasn't with conviction. He was obviously troubled; he had never had an affair with another man and had never imagined he would. In addition, I was a prostitute. I would predict a sensible man like him to be angry with himself and likely not even pay me. He would be in denial. John did not display the slightest indications of anger or denial. He told me to go with a tone of personal regret, but not remorse. He waited to say it, as if he was unsure whether he really wanted me to go or not.

I needed more information to solve the mystery. The information I needed was hidden past the roadblock that would never cross my path again.

There was a rap on the door, and through the crack beneath it came Anderson's repulsive voice. "Wake up, dickhead. Your boyfriend's here to see you."

"Which one?"

"The straight one. I thought I'd tell you for his sake. The poor bloke's had to ward off at least four flirtatious tosspots since he sat down at the bar."

His footsteps fell away from the door. I was alert again in an instant. The straight one?

Conveniently, the trouble of taking off my uniform hadn't crossed my mind earlier. I threw the door open and looked toward the bar. In the center, wedged between a muscular fellow and a pseudo-fashionable transvestite, was the ordinary man named John, who was scanning the club with a determined look on his face and at the same time appeared to be deflecting another advance. Funny how the real ostentatious ones always flocked to his type.

More importantly, he was back, and the puzzling roadblock came along with him.

He turned back toward the bar when inquired to by one of the bartenders, politely refusing a drink, and at that moment I took action. I moved forward, brushing the side of his leg with my fingertips as I passed by. When I arrived at an unoccupied alcove I turned around to see him following me. He did not enter the alcove when I gestured. He stopped beside me and said, "Could I take you to dinner?"

"_Dinner?_"

"Yes. There's a nice cafe on the other side of the street." After giving me a chance to respond which passed straight over me due to incredulity, he stuffed twenty pounds in my vest pocket. "And I'll treat you to anything you want."

For a moment I was too perplexed to think of anything to say, so I gave the typical, all-purpose, "Of course." Again we traveled out the back way and began our walk.

Damn this man. This man kept doing illogical things and I could not tell whether I considered a good thing - a continual challenge - or an absurd nuisance.

I deduced what I could. He suggested the cafe because he disliked the club and knew I wouldn't make advances on him in a public eatery. But why would he come back in the first place? For the boyfriend experience? No. He had something to talk to me about; something to ask that was completely unrelated to my usual services.

Nothing about his manner gave me any further clues. He was aloof, but that could be easily attributed to his discomfort toward me. We entered the cafe and sat on either side of a booth in the corner.

"Something on your mind?"

"Yes. There was nothing on the news about the fire at the Guardian; they covered it up. How did you know?"

I was thoroughly surprised. It took either a remarkably astute person or a stalker to have bothered noticing something like that, and then to have followed up on it. I ventured to assume that John was not the latter.

The approach of the waiter saved me from having to produce a quick answer. "Drinks?"

"Tea," John answered simply, and gestured to me.

"I'll have the same."

When we were left alone, he looked at me expectantly.

"Lucky guess," I said confidently. The consequent expression on his face was comical. It was clear that he did not want to be treated like he was stupid, because he wasn't.

"I get that you knew I was a writer because I mentioned an article, but there are any number of newspaper and magazine companies in London. You 'guessed' the Guardian with complete confidence."

"Only three in this general vicinity."

"What if you'd said the wrong one?"

"Then you would have corrected me."

"I know which three you're talking about, and they're not exactly in friendly competition. You're obviously skilled at your craft; would you really risk angering me?"

I smiled, taking his offhand remark as a compliment. "You're not the type to get angry."

"What makes you say that?"

I realized that he wasn't going to let up until I gave him a legitimate answer. I had two choices: keep my methods concealed and risk losing him again to irritation, or reveal them and risk losing him for good to animosity. The second choice had a bigger risk but a minutely higher probability of success. I'm not sure which I gave in to: the statistics, or the underlying hope for acceptance.

"Your shoes: sturdy, designed for walking, and covered in scuff marks that are too ingrained to have resulted from a single trip, so I knew you walked to and from work the moment you came in the door. Your fingertips are worn down but not calloused like a guitarist's would be, there's an indelible black blotch on the side of your right hand where it hits the ink on your paper; you're a writer, likely for a well-off company based on the clean and professional attire you had been wearing that day. There are three companies fitting of that description in this area. One is a women's magazine with no male authors; although I suppose some of them could be using pseudonyms, I didn't think you would be one of them. One is overtly religious, and I knew you wouldn't fit in there because you had no problem walking into a strip club, either gay or straight. The last is the Guardian."

I took a calm breath, waiting for him to call me a lunatic and walk out. People never understood these analyses of mine; they would be momentarily astounded, come to their own conclusions based on personal experience and level of paranoia, and then become unconsciously fearful that I would discover every secret they had ever had. They assumed I was a stalker and a terrorist. Some even went a step further and impulsively accused me of forming pacts with the Devil.

John simply stared in astonishment, and as he stared the outline of a smile formed on his lips. "That is amazing."

For the second time in what couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes, I was lost for words.

Suddenly he lunged forward in his seat, grey eyes alight with youthful curiosity. "Can you do that with anybody? It's like you knew my whole life story in a single glance, the way you describe it."

"I have yet to come across a person I couldn't."

"That's fantastic. Explain it to me. Have you taken a course on human psychology or something?"

"Nothing of the sort; those courses are painfully basic. I simply observe."

He glanced over my shoulder, seeming excitedly apprehensive. "Observe the waiter, then," he suggested, and when the waiter came with a tray of tea and sugar in hand, I conducted a full-body visual examination for anything I hadn't detected the first time around.

"Are you ready to order?"

There was a pause as neither of us answered. I was engrossed in my task and John didn't seem to want anything. Only when the waiter repeated himself did I realize they were both looking at me, but it didn't concern me. The whole ordeal hadn't taken more than a few seconds.

"Sorry, no thank you," I responded with a polite smile. Something was mentioned about a check.

Neither of us touched the drinks immediately. When the young man was out of earshot I appraised him in a low voice free of partiality. "He's a painter. It's obvious by his hands and even the remainder of a blue fleck on the front of his neck. Like most artists slash food service workers he doesn't have much money; if his showerhead was intelligently placed that blue fleck would have washed off this morning. Any well-to-do household would have had that fixed a long time ago. Based on his unusual skin tone and the remnants of sand in his hair he's taken a trip to the beach recently, which explains the blue paint. He was painting the ocean, and I'd readily bet that this painting could be found displayed at the London Art Fair next week, in the Business Design Center of Islington, which happens to be located only a few streets away from your flat."

"He lives upstairs to me," John replied after a pause, his voice quietly overflowing with admiration.

"I figured as much."

"That's all correct. I heard him talking to a lady about the art fair a few days ago."

"About ten years older, short hair, professional look?"

His gape suggested that I was correct.

"She works at the Business Design Center. I know her. They're having an affair, which is why I'm so sure his art will be displayed. The haircut was recent; she's left behind short strands of hair on the shoulders of his jacket, too light to be his. He's also bearing the traces of her perfume, either purposeful or lingering I'm not sure."

He shook his head, mouth still hanging open. "That's unbelievable. I've never witnessed anything like it."

For the first time in years, I found myself wondering about things that didn't matter. I wondered if he knew that I was just as surprised as he was, but suppressing it. I wondered if he could tell that I was fumbling to respond to things that had never been said to me before, except in sexual context, in which case they generally didn't require an answer.

"So in your profession, you observe people like that and that's how you know what they like?"

"It all boils down into quite a simple formula."

He started drinking, watching me all the while. I didn't say anything more. He had fallen into a reverie which caused him to forget his usual diplomacy. It gave me a chance to absorb all that had just occurred, and the more I absorbed the happier I felt, because no one had ever responded like John had to the trait which made everyone else think I was a freak.

Then I remembered that happiness never lasted when it originated from people. That was the single most important thing I had learned throughout my life, and the fact had gone completely ignored for almost an entire dinner because of a _compliment_.

This meeting was business. Nothing more.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you wasting a talent like that on sex?" he asked, and finally I could see the train of thoughts trailing behind it. _Imagine what it could do in another field. You're much too intelligent to be a prostitute. Why, again, are you a prostitute?_My mind was working again.

"I have my own reasons for that," I said, and only afterward did I realize that the coldness I was trying to keep in my heart had bled into my voice and broken the thread of enchantment running through the course of our conversation up until then.

He started filling out the check when it was brought to us. I recognized our impending separation as a threat. Since John was one of the few customers I could bear, it was important that I kept him a customer. A customer and nothing more.

"That can't be all you came to ask me."

"It is," he responded coolly. "I believe I got my money's worth."

"I believe I owe you more."

"Well it's my money, so shouldn't I be the judge of that?"

He smiled cheerily as he stood up. I searched for a quick solution, an excuse, an alibi with a sliver of truth behind it so that it was believable.

"The problem is," I began, feigning a hint of distress. "My supervisor hasn't been particularly pleased with me lately, and if I leave with someone and come back in any less than two hours I'm going to receive an earful for it."

"You could wait here."

"I can't be found alone."

He stared at me for a moment before leaning down on the table to get closer. His voice was quiet and firm. "Let me make something very clear to you. I'm not interested in any sexual comfort."

"Understood."

"Last time, you made me a promise and did not keep it."

"My promise was that I wouldn't come on to you if you didn't want me to. Your dick suggested that you did."

He opened his mouth to retort but couldn't seem to come up with anything except capitulation. "You will stay on one side of the room with the telly and I will be on the other side doing job research, which, might I add, requires a bit of peace and quiet."

"That rule wouldn't be necessary if you felt no sexual attraction toward me. You would fend me off as easily as you did those fellows at the bar."

He rose to his full height and walked away without saying anything, probably because there was no way to retaliate to an undeniably true statement, and dropped the check by the front counter on his way out. I followed several paces behind.

When we arrived he turned on the television, shoved the remote into my hands, and then retreated to his side of the room and pulled open the classified section of the latest issue of the Guardian, which I found humorously ironic. The place was messier than it had been the last time, by nuances. He hadn't been in high spirits lately.

For half an hour I watched the news. When the channel lapsed into its nonsensical portion about celebrities and entertainment I switched to a horrible sitcom centered on a group of sexually active doctors, which was entertaining in how false it was. A good example of what not to do when people are dying.

At about half past eleven he shut off his laptop and lay down, hands folded on his stomach, blankets discarded. He was stressed and I knew that he wouldn't sleep for several more hours, so I saw this as my opportunity. Not an opportunity for sex, but an opportunity to leave a memorable impression. I couldn't bother him now when he was trying so hard to achieve peace.

Instead I leaned down beside him and kissed him goodnight, and he pretended he wasn't awake, just as I knew he would.

While I was walking back I found myself wondering again. I wondered what he was thinking. I wondered if his mind had wandered to another topic by now or if the kiss was still foremost. I wondered what it would be like to spend the night in his arms, wanted not for sex or for comfort but for love. It was a perfectly plausible thing to wonder, I told myself, because if I could invoke a feeling in him similar to what he felt for his past girlfriends, I would have a steadily returning customer.

I forced myself to stop making excuses and stop wondering. It was dangerous. John was dangerous. _If_he became a steadily returning customer and I didn't control myself, he could destroy everything I worked for and everything I had done to protect myself up until then.

Focus, objectivity, apathy. I was already losing it.

* * *

_Thank you to anyone reading this. c: I would love to have some feedback._


	3. Strange Emotion

About once a month I received a call from a wealthy gentleman by the name of Thomas Hambleton. He was the only client I accepted calls from, mainly due to the generosity of his payments, which made it seem a silly prospect to deny any request.

He preferred sending a chauffeur to the club rather than going himself, as is the custom of busy men living lavish lifestyles. Today his call came in the form of an unfamiliar voice, likely a new butler, informing me that a limousine was waiting for me outside. I dropped everything I was doing, which wasn't much, and left Miss Ginny's with a level of enthusiasm higher than usual that I accredited to the appeal of a man who wasn't a complete imbecile, treated me decently despite my unflattering job title, and provided me the rare luxury of conducting business in a sumptuous abode.

The limousine took me into Belgravia, where the streets were paved with the spirit of lofty refinement and anyone who walked outside stuck up their nose as a brazen indication of social status for the fifteen seconds that they weren't safely ensconced in one of their nine Bentleys. Not all of them were stereotypical snobs, but all of them lived there knowing that everyone knew that everyone who lived there was rich. Thomas only lived there because he had been advised to do so to impress people in the business world, and it undoubtedly worked.

My chauffeur dropped me off at the door and left me alone from there on out. I knew my own way around the place by now. Up two flights of stairs, at the end of a long ivory-colored hallway, was the room that Tom and I spent our time together. It could be called the luxury guest bedroom, as it visually paralleled the master bedroom on the other side. An entire wall was made of glass, tinted so that no one on the outside could see in. He was waiting on the love seat, looking out at the city.

I moved forward and leaned over to his kiss his cheek, forearms resting on the back of the seat, and half-whispered, "Hello, darling."

"Leo," he replied fondly, turning his chin to face me, and demonstrating several common business practices that had become habitual for him all at once; address people by their names as often as possible, look them sincerely in the eyes, and offer compliments. "It's good to see you."

He reached up with dainty, reliable fingers and coaxed me forward by the jaw to meet his lips. He had been drinking wine, but I knew it was for epicurean enjoyment rather than for getting drunk. Tom was too smart to get drunk.

"Tell me how you've been."

"Tired," I said, feigning a languid tone.

"Come, lay down with me then." He gestured at the meager empty space on the sofa with his legs outstretched, displaying his smooth and subtle sense of humor, so I found a comfortable place on his lap and looked out at the view he had just been enjoying. "What's worn you out?"

"Some interesting occurrences which came and went."

"Like?"

"I can't tell."

I saw him begin to pull a fifty pound bill out of his pocket, again with that sense of humor I found myself recurrently appreciating, so I said, "The confidentiality of my other clients is the one thing you can't buy from me, Mr. Hambleton." Then I smiled, rolled directly over the length of his body, kissed him with an eager mouth, and took the money anyway.

It had been a little more than a month since I'd last seen John, and this was therapy. He hadn't come back after the second time. I suppose his questions had been answered so he had no reason to come back, while mine were left completely unexplored.

A unique sort of rivalry existed implicitly between Mr. Thomas Hambleton and me that had proven, as of yet, to be the only thing that could fully divert my attention from cogitations of the mystery I had been unable to solve.

"Undress me," he ordered as I pulled away from his lips, but when I reached for his tie he guarded it with his own hand, breaking out an undeniably attractive smirk. "Undress yourself first."

With stubborn hesitation I rose and stripped myself beside the sofa while he returned his gaze to the city lights. It gave him power to nonchalantly choose not to watch, to listen to each garment hit the floor and do nothing when he had the freedom to turn his head whenever he wished. He enjoyed hints of bare skin through his peripherals and left the rest to be revealed at his own pace. In a way, it made it so that my body was under his control before he had even touched me.

When I came back to him I stayed close, where he could see only past my shoulder at my bare back. His hand followed the length of my spine, caressing me as I removed his tie, his silk vest, unbuttoned his clearly expensive collared shirt and smoothed it past his slender shoulders.

Once we were both fully exposed he drew in all of my features with a slow survey of my body, pulling a condom from between the cushions and a tube of lubricant from beside him which he handed over to me. I knew what he wanted. He could choose to dominate anyone, and that was exactly what he did when caught in the opportunity with another person from his area of the world. He had a reputation to keep up and no way to reliably determine what information an ordinary person would choose to share about his personal life. I had the promise, as I had just reminded him, of confidentiality. I could fulfill the hidden craving that he had now and again to be the one on the underside.

When I was done with the lubricant I pressed a kiss to his neck and pushed inside without mercy, sensing the will in his writhing and the pleasure in his cries. Because this was what he wanted, he still had control, but I was fighting for it, and our battle continued throughout the night.

At about four in the morning I slipped out of his grasp, clothed myself, and departed, picking up the munificent deposit he left on the shelf by the door for me on my way out. After a full rest and a walk around the city to pick up necessities, I started work again in the evening.

"Don't be so stingy, baby! Take it off, take it off!"

I made a gesture which my gullible audience reacted to by stuffing an accumulation of at least forty pounds into various parts of my waistband, so I smiled, shimmied off my vest, and gestured again. The tables around me roared in drunken complaint. I said nothing but continued my choreography, knowing they would give in, and just as the treasury in my pants was reaching its required quota to be removed, another banknote was laid down; not deposited in the treasury or even thrown, but laid down on the lighted platform at my feet, which would only be done by someone too timid to touch me in the crude, regardless way that everyone else did. It was a much larger amount than he usually deposited.

John was standing there with a rather blank expression on his face that, if anything, was alarmed, and the disoriented traces of alcohol-induced redness around his eyes. I moved away from the pole at the center of the platform and crouched down in front of him, where I could speak to him. "I didn't think I would see you again."

I slid my hand over his shoulder to the back of his neck, keeping him close, inviting him to touch me. The alcohol had made him bold; soon he had me kneeling, his arms around my waist, unafraid. The other club goers didn't matter to either of us. Not the ones who had paid me to take my pants off and weren't receiving recompense, and not the ones who were either shouting indignantly or whistling now.

"I didn't think so either," he said, nodding close enough to my chest to smell the scented body oil. "But I think I could actually use a bit of sexual comfort."

"Shall we go, then?" I offered, and he stared at me blankly a moment before the statement processed through his inebriated mind in a way that made sense. He nodded, grabbed my hand, and pulled me down from the platform.

Something must have happened to have caused him to resort to such a gross deviation of character. I had already witnessed his initial reaction to causing a fire in a major city building, getting sacked, getting dumped, and giving in to receiving oral from a man all in one day, and this reaction was far more drastic. It must have been a gradual build-up that was finally set off by a single trifling event. It would only happen once, so I was lucky that he'd chosen to come to me during it. But I didn't like to accredit things to chance. Rather, it was a human custom to use alcoholic stupor as an excuse to go back to things they'd previously regretted, but enjoyed.

At his flat he was struck by the same inexperienced loss for actions that he had the first time, which, coupled with his newfound boldness, resulted in a string of actions that were sloppy, experimental, and paradoxically charming. He undressed himself with a clumsy determination and appeared surprised when he turned around to see me sitting with my legs crossed on the side of his bed, waiting, with my own clothes in a neat pile beside me.

"You are skilled."

"You haven't seen the half of what I can do," I said, smiling. Then I grabbed his arm and pulled him on top of me, sliding back toward the middle of the bed. I knew I wasn't going to be putting him through any drastically new experiences tonight. My role would be as feminine as possible.

"Do you have, um?" He made a gesture with his shaking fingers that did not remotely remind me of a condom, but since I already knew that was what he was asking for, I pulled one out of the pocket of my discarded pants on the side of the bed. "And you're clean?" he added, pulling it open.

"Yes. Fully tested and always safe."

By the time he had the condom on I had turned around to face the pillow, because my back looked more alike to woman's than my chest did. Then he said something that surprised me.

"Is there another way to do this?"

"You mean…the position?"

"Yes."

"Of course, there are plenty." In a swift graceful motion I rolled onto my back. It didn't feel oppressive. I wasn't revolted by the sight of him. As a pleasant deviation from the norm, I felt comfortable.

"Good. I don't feel right shagging someone without seeing their face," he said, and suddenly I had an identity and wasn't just another person's nightly fuck.

"You'll have to hold my legs up. Just go at your own pace," I explained, in a weaker voice than I had expected because some strange emotion was overtaking me entirely and my mind was discarding the usual steps for good business, as if this wasn't just sex, as if he wanted me to be me and express what I was really feeling and not just moan to periodically drive out his insecurities, as if he wanted me to enjoy this as well. And I was enjoying it, on an entirely different level from all my other customers; even Thomas Hambleton, whose calls I enjoyed for the intelligent challenge in them.

This did not require my wit or careful training. This required emotion and pure actions it incited. That was what John wanted. He would know if it was faked. There was a fine line between him coming back and not coming back, and his subconscious would make the decision based on how genuine I was.

I knew then how easy it was to lose his patronage, and I refused to accept failure as far as I could help it. So I closed my eyes for a moment, breathed, relieved myself of all my business presets, and _felt_. I felt his hands against the back of my thighs, restlessly repositioning themselves in question of whether they were correct. I felt the bed sink beneath me as he shifted his weight, I felt his breath light and warm against my cheek, I felt the indelible connection that formed between us as he pushed inside, and the sting that came along with it and quickly faded, and the gentle exploratory movement as he adapted to the feeling of a man as compared to a woman, and finally I felt the friction building as he figured out what to do. I was gripping at the sheets to keep myself stable and whining in pleasure when he hit the right spot, and none of it was an act.

He had his eyes on me and they held nothing negative. They were adoring. At one point his hand slipped from my thigh and hit the sheets but he left it there, and eventually removed the other as well, finding more intimacy in allowing the skin of my legs to press against his shoulders.

I saw his muscles tense and pulled one of my hands from its grip on the sheets to assist my own need to be touched. He was watching me still, learning, and the pace continued for several minutes. All at once his heavy breaths broke out into quiet groans and his eyes glazed over in ecstasy and he lost strength and leaned in close. My legs were trapped tight between his chest and mine; his lips coincidentally brushed hot against the exposed section of my shoulder as he came. Moments later I was overtaken by the same sensation and for those seconds of white hot pleasure all I could see was John and all I could think was John and all I could hope was that it would be John over and over again from there on out.

Then he was laying beside me and the feeling of fullness began to fade. One by one the unwelcome indicators of reality set in; first the physical things, like the sweat and the liquid mess atop my body and the familiar ache in my backside becoming more potent, and then the truths as my mind pieced itself together again. I was hired for this; for my body, not my temperament. There was still a notable probability that he wouldn't hire me again. Most importantly, I hardly knew him. I knew who he was but had yet to decipher his thoughts and motivations. In addition, learning a person's personality took time.

So what in hell had gotten my emotions so worked up a few moments ago?

I cleaned up quickly by wiping myself off and discarding the sheets that had been soiled. Then I moved closer, to where my chest and his shoulder were touching, and stayed silent until we both caught our breath.

"May I ask you something?"

"Yes, what is it?" he answered, voiced muffled coming from the other side and sounding already half-asleep.

"What changed your mind? What made you come back?"

He was silent for several moments as he woke himself up and pieced the story together in his head. He switched angles to face me, and as he spoke his tone was totally honest; neither eager or uneager, just matter-of-fact. "Adrienne called me today and invited me on a sort of date. I suppose she expected me to have come to some grand realization since the last time I saw her about how I'm supposed to act in a relationship, and when she figured out that nothing had changed she disposed of me as heartlessly as she had the last time. It's silly how much I've let that woman affect me. It's like you said; she doesn't treat people right."

"It's understandable. People become attached to those who make them feel needed, whether it's in a positive or negative way. Often a person with a negative influence can actually harbor greater feelings of attachment. It's like an addiction. You're all fatally addicted to pain and abuse."

"You say 'you' like you're different from the rest of us."

"I am."

"I suppose your profession requires a certain type of apathy," he responded. There was a bitter tinge to it.

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to tell him that the same apathy didn't apply to every client, but that wouldn't be professional. Then I vexed myself with the question of whether it would be a lie or not.

"I think I'm going to regret this affair in the morning," he said suddenly. It seemed that he was looking at me but past me, already setting himself up to forget.

"You will consciously."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Your regret will be based on certain societal norms and perceptions of yourself that are already drilled into your head. If you were to throw out all biases and look solely upon the wonderful time you had tonight - the feelings - I don't think there would be anything to regret."

He broke out into a smile, laughed genuinely, and then turned back to the other side, signalling his desire to rest.

"You'll come back again, won't you? For the feelings? Pleasure yields a surprising number of health benefits."

The smile lived on in his voice. "We'll see."


	4. Taunts and Riddles

When I came back the next morning, Miss Ginny was already there, waiting to call me into his office the moment I walked through the door. He usually left an hour or so past midnight and returned late in the evening, because his check-ins only required a few hours' work and then a bit of activity monitoring around the club. He had accountants to file through the really boring paperwork before passing it on to him.

It was four in the morning, so he must have stayed late. He was irritated. I could see it by the creases on his forehead; he hadn't expected to wait so long for me, but he wouldn't show it in his words. Admittedly, I had stayed with John while he was asleep longer than necessary. He gave me a lot to think about.

Miss Ginny gestured for me to sit down in front of his desk, so I did, and he continued playing virtual Solitaire while he spoke in the abstracted front that he put up anytime he had something authoritarian to say. "That cute little alcoholic keep you up long? Usually they pass out after thirty minutes."

"He's not an alcoholic. He had a bad day. And he wasn't drunk enough to faint; he just looked it because his body's not used to the alcohol."

He glanced over at me from his computer screen with a look that served to remind me that he didn't appreciate my snappy attitude when giving facts. Nobody did. Nobody except John. I almost apologized, but this time I didn't. I just made a mental note to keep it out of the rest of the conversation.

"I don't like to be a downer; obviously you enjoyed your time with him, but...do you remember the first principal of our mission statement?"

I did. I had been required to sign it when I first got hired, and it was hanging right behind me on the door to his office, and several other copies were placed throughout my room as well as the rest of the employees only section of the club. "Customer satisfaction. Whatever it takes."

"And at what time do you consider your customer satisfied?"

"When they dismiss you or fall asleep."

"Now, the second principal?"

"Efficiency."

"Expand."

"Get in, get out. Concentrate the customer satisfaction section into as short a time as possible so you can get back to the club and satisfy another. Personal feelings shall never be involved; your body is as much a tool for profit as a cash register, so tiredness is not an excuse. It can and will be controlled, like all the other emotions."

He turned to me and smiled. "I almost like your definition better than what's written. Too bad some people would get offended. That's why I like you, Sherlock. You understand this profession better than anyone else."

I simply nodded. I was in no mood to have a conversation with him, especially while he was scolding me, since that's exactly what this was. He wouldn't mention it explicitly. He just gave friendly reminders with the underlying message: Do it right next time or you're fired.

"Have a nice rest, darling. That is, if you need haven't already rested."

I didn't bother shutting the door nicely when I left. It wouldn't matter to him in another day. His mind was more trained to remember his employees' relations with their customers than their relations with him. His mind was consistently set on money, and everyone knew I was the most profitable employee he had. He would not fire me if I displeased him. He would find some other way to make my life miserable.

Which, naturally, made me want to conduct a test to see what exactly my limits were and what he would do in response to my breaking them.

The next time I took a walk around the city, my first stop was the local coffee shop. There was no line but the barista seemed in a hurry, and didn't look up when he asked me what I wanted.

"Black, two sugars."

Then he looked up, halting his writing mid-phrase, and I smiled genially.

"You knew I'd be here, didn't you?"

"The smell was all over your clothes last time."

"And that I'm getting off in precisely two minutes?"

"When I walked in here I thought that might be the case. Thank you for confirming. Now you have no excuse not to sit down with me and have a coffee."

"Well, I could say that I don't want to."

"But you won't. It's a good deal; you don't even have to pay me when we're only chatting."

He watched me for a moment, smiling, and then said, "Have a seat. I'll bring you your coffee."

I sat at a small circular table in the corner of the shop and watched out the window for potential threats, which, in this case, were perfectly welcome; though it was unlikely that anyone would recognize me here, even if they passed by. People were too caught up in their own petty little worlds to notice things. My street clothes also helped in the case of blending in, but I had done that more for John's sake than mine.

He joined me two minutes after I'd been at the counter, apron doffed and one cup of black coffee in hand which he pushed in front of me.

"Business going well?"

"Don't bother asking me that question here," he began, in a low voice, and then piped up. "Excellent. It's really busy in the mornings."

"I wouldn't worry about being too discreet. Your manager's not here and your coworkers clearly share your opinion. I take it this is a temporary job, anyway. You're better than this."

He glanced down with a smile, signalling confirmation, and probably appreciation that I had noticed. Nevertheless, the conversation from that point on took up a quiet tone. "I can't do much with a degree in journalism after I've been sacked from one of the best media groups in the country."

"What are your plans?"

"Go back to school and study something a little more useful. Once I scrounge up the money, that is."

"Your visits with me haven't been too taxing, have they?"

He shook his head no - of course not; they were worthwhile stress relief, whether he wanted to admit it or not - and then looked up skeptically. "Why are you here, anyway?"

"I wanted to enjoy my time off. I was also wondering how I did." I cocked an eyebrow, smiling. "So that next time I can improve upon it."

He seemed to be getting used to the idea of homosexual intercourse, as his only sign of discomfort was a short laugh. "To be honest I can't remember the details," he said, occupying himself with smoothing his fingertip across a napkin in meaningless patterns, as if that would help him put everything together. "I remember that you treated me much differently than she did. Than anyone did, for that matter. Which was your goal, right?"

"Did you feel important? Loved?"

His eyes met mine and seemed to recognize something in them, a reminder of the way I'd looked beneath him, readily returning his gaze the entire time and accepting every movement without a struggle. "Yes," he muttered, turning away. "Like you weren't just..."

I didn't finish the sentence for him. No need to remind him of that. "Then my goal was achieved."

He paused, and then out tumbled an unsorted string of words in flustered intervals. "Look, I don't know what hidden, unwarranted section of my mind you've managed to tap into through all of this, but I don't think I want you to continue with it."

"What section are you talking about?" I asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting it in his words.

"The section that would have me, first: hiring a prostitute, and second: hiring a male one."

There was his order of priorities. It was more offensive to him to be consorting with a prostitute than with another man, as I suspected, which validated my first course of action. I needed to portray myself as something more than that, and I was already taking a step by meeting him here.

"I'm not an ordinary prostitute. I think you know that already. You're the only one who knows that, in fact."

"But you are a prostitute."

"I'm a house escort."

"Is there a difference?"

"House implying that I work at a single establishment, escort meaning I select which clients I accept."

"You're a prostitute either way."

"If you'd like to consider it that," I said, smiling as if it meant something when all it meant was that I was willing to comply with whatever he wanted, as long as he wasn't forcing me away. "If you haven't got plans today, I can enlighten you on a few of those health benefits I mentioned."

"Enlighten me now."

"In public? Well I'd be glad to, but I thought you were more modest than that."

He sighed, but I knew he found it amusing. "No, I mean, verbally."

I leaned forward on my elbows, counting each factor off on my fingers. "The obvious one, stress relief, better blood pressure. Boosts in immunity. Improved heart health. Easier bonding and trust-building. Decreased risk of prostate cancer. Better sleep. It's a natural painkiller, loads you up with endorphins. Also a very efficient workout."

"All that's a bit hard to ignore, isn't it?"

"Everyone has a guilty habit, John. Chances are it's an unhealthy one. You don't drink, you don't smoke. You don't even watch porn."

He made a gesture as if to tell me to keep my voice down, as if just the words themselves were offensive even though I was using them to shed a positive light on him. So I lowered my voice.

"I know you don't want to admit it, but you find me attractive. Charming. Clever. Skilled. Otherwise we wouldn't be here today. So why pass up the opportunity?"

"It's not necessary."

"If people lived only on what was necessary, the world would be a very dull place."

He glanced around the room as if that would help him create a better perspective. It might have, if he noticed the pack of cigarettes in the teenage girl's back pocket and the fragrance of marijuana permeating the area around a table of hippies and the canteen of vodka one man was emptying into his coffee and the conversation another man was having with his mistress on the phone while staring scornfully at the wedding band on his finger. Probably all he noticed was the cute dog leashed up outside, which presently started barking at him.

Finally he glanced down at my coffee. "You finished?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Let's get out of here before I change my mind."

He walked quickly and took off his jacket slowly when he arrived. Still nervous. Probably didn't even know what he expected to happen this time around. I decided for him.

"First things first," I said, approaching him while his back was turned. Once his jacket was successfully disconnected from his body, he spun around and promptly stumbled back against the back of the living chair just behind him. I had my hands resting on the top, on either side of his hips, and my face inches away. "I want you to feel comfortable around me."

As I brought one hand up toward his face he drew a sharp intake of air leftover from his earlier surprise. I held his jaw like I'd tried to the very first time I met him and he accepted it this time, but stayed tense. My fingers trailed to his chin and tilted it upward. I was leaning forward slowly, deliberately, and our lips met and I allowed him to take the lead, which made it sweet and sedate, and I felt him relaxing as I clasped my arms around his waist. He slid one hand up to my shoulder. I moved closer and felt my hips press against his and then he turned his head, breaking the kiss off short.

I waited, and it seemed like he wanted to say something. He didn't. After a few seconds he looked back up at me with decision in his eyes and kissed me again, and this time it was him who asked for more, his lips that unsealed themselves against mine and invited me in, his arms snaking around my neck and pulling me so close that I could feel his heart beating against my chest, and I pushed him up into a sitting position on the seat back and accepted his invitation wholeheartedly. I couldn't help but notice that now that he wanted it, he was a damn good kisser. He knew exactly how much to give and accept, how much to put into it so that we were perfectly in tune with each other, and it made everything feel right.

Without breaking away, I slipped my hands under his thighs and twisted around, picturing my way toward his bed, because uniting with John didn't hinder my senses but made everything clearer, made everything make sense even when it didn't, made my mind work impossibly faster to decipher and carry out whatever actions would please him the most. Then his back hit the mattress and I was on top of him and kissing him while I unbuttoned his shirt, which I noticed was a collared flannel.

"We match," I muttered, smiling.

"They told me casual-professional. Everyone else comes to work looking like they just got out of school for the day."

He was talking, smiling back, becoming more natural. I took note of everything. I noted the way he shivered when my lips trailed down to his collarbone and sucked, the provocative tilt of his head back into the pillow when I freed him from his pants and ran my fingers up his length. It was incessantly arousing and yet he wasn't trying at all, just reacting. I was used to being the cause of these reactions, but none had ever made me feel so proud, so possessive. I wanted this man to be mine.

I rolled onto my side and observed him from beside him, making subtle switches in pace and grip to see where his chest heaved and his hands clenched into fists and his breath hitched in his throat. His eyes were closed and I could only guess what he was imagining. No deductions. They wouldn't work. I had to feel to find out who he was, and it was a patient task that I, for once, was willing to undertake.

His hand instinctively found my unoccupied wrist and as my gaze stayed on his face and the gorgeous expressions crossing over it I felt him spilling hot over my hand and it took me a moment to recognize that through his sighs he was moaning, "Dimitr...Dimi...tr..."

He was catching his breath when I noticed that I could hardly breathe. He turned his head and met my eyes and I felt like I was paralyzed.

I forced myself through the oppression and rolled out of bed to retrieve a towel, using the moment I was facing away from him to defragment my thoughts. My name, not my real name, but it didn't matter, he was imagining me.

Nothing unusual about that, I told myself. All my regulars favored me in such a particular way, except for that one last week who was grunting 'Percy' while he had his prick in me. But no, nothing unusual, nothing special. Just another successful sale.

I had him cleaned off in moments and then lay down beside him again. He seemed happy. Suddenly he turned to me and said, "Everything you do feels unworldly. Is every prostitute psychic? That was the best handjob I've ever had. You're better for me than me."

I couldn't help but feel flattered. Flattered, nothing more. "Not every one. The others just practice a lot."

He sighed and turned his eyes back toward the ceiling before closing them. "Shame I have to pay for you. I think I'd rather keep you all day to give me hourly handjobs." I watched him after this statement and it took me a moment to realize I was witnessing a very rare thing. This wasn't the way John acted toward the general public, even to me in the past; open, witty, expressive, even affectionate. This was the way he acted around his girlfriends.

I was struck by an idea the practical part of me told me to ignore, which another part of me - I wasn't sure which part - ignored in turn. "I'll give you a base charge. One consistent fee for any length of time and any request you can think of."

"How much?"

"Seventy. Per visit."

He considered it with furrowed brows and for a moment I thought that I'd made the price too high to fit into his current situation, even though it could be a stupendous deal if he took advantage of it. Then he glanced sideways across the room as if he had remembered something, and said, "That sounds doable. You're staying, then." A hidden stash, a savings account, some sort of piggy bank. I remembered the direction of his glance for later inspection, if I was given the chance.

"You don't have anything to take care of?"

"Nothing imminent."

I crawled closer and pressed my lips to his neck, but then his hand pressed gently back against my chest. "Just- wait. I need..." He took a long breath, searching for words to express himself, and came up dry. "I need you to wait a moment."

"Still nervous?"

"Not nervous. Um."

"A little overwhelmed?"

"Yes. All the, you know...you're, well, male."

"Understandable," I assured him before pulling back to where I was. He seemed surprised to see me smiling. Not like I provided intimacy to people every day, and it become exceedingly boring. I appreciated the change, and I appreciated still how different he was from all the rest.

He had nothing else to say, so I asked him questions about himself, things I already knew but hadn't confirmed. I was right on all accounts. After a time I ran out of things to confirm and told him jokes I'd picked up a lifetime of eavesdropping. He laughed with his eyes and told me they were moronic, which they were, which made them funny nonetheless. When I ran out of foolish jokes I gave him riddles. He solved all but one. I was impressed.

The false answer he gave to the one he couldn't solve was, "Kiss me."

Or maybe he could solve it after all.


	5. John's Debts

John started visiting me at the club once a week, sometimes two. It was always an amusing sight when I caught it; the way he hobbled through the center trying to touch as little as possible, constantly reeling his eyes as though someone objectionable might find him there. My insufferable coworkers began to recognize him as my regular and inform me whenever he arrived, which was their one positive use.

Miss Ginny hadn't said anything further about my work habits, which was utterly suspicious. He had an addictive personality; wouldn't let up until he was absolutely sure he had his way. I suspected that he was fully aware of where I'd been the day I went to the coffee shop, how long I'd been there, and how little profit I'd brought back from it, in which case he was probably planning something very inconvenient which he would have intended to be very hurtful. Such is the overconfident inadequacy of humans. Always afraid to go all the way.

These suspicions didn't bother me. If anything, I was bothered by the fact that his plans were taking so long to come to light. My daily routine of sleeping, thinking, dancing, and sexually pleasing the occasional bearable human became more mundane every day I continued with it. I was running out of things to learn about the male sexual appetite.

That's why I favored John's visits. His sex drive conformed with many of the standard patterns that the rest of my clientele had familiarized me with, which is what had made it possible for me to seduce him in the first place, but he added an additional column to the spreadsheet, a new aspect to interpret and subjugate. He incited something in _me_.

It was not unusual for me to conduct business in a domestic setting like I did with John, but his flat came to mean something different. It was an escape from the standardized atmosphere of morbid sensuality, a place where I could feel at home with the only reminder of falsehood being my payment, which I quickly stowed away. He didn't treat me like anyone but an individual person. He didn't flatter me and then use me as a tool for the short time that it was convenient. When we weren't doing something physically intimate, he was communicating with me like he would with a friend, which to me was more intimate than any relationship I'd ever had.

When we lay together and he told me about his life and his endless banal troubles, not once considering his own practical privacy since that first time when we met, I was entrusted with something much greater than a collection of common trifles. For the first time I recognized the depth in small happenings. I learned those things that a surface deduction had not and could never tell me. John was teaching me who he was, and I felt the value of it, and with every word he spoke I felt it grow heavier in my hands; it was a treasure I could not sell off or even explain to any outsider, the type that I had always thrown out before. He walked me through his days as if I were a part of them, and I actually cared.

Once he told me about a mate he had in secondary school who became determined to find him a girl one week before prom and, through a number of completely unrelated bribes, managed to set him up a date with the most individualistic young lady on campus. They danced for one and a half minutes, he offered to fetch her refreshments, and she responded with a bitter remark about how he kept holding doors open for her and coincidentally knocked him headfirst into the punch bowl.

Looking back, this told me volumes about how the entirety his teenage years must have conspired, but in my habitual affectation I started to believe I was ordinary when I was with him, and I listened without analyzing, and I was someone who could relate. All I could think to say was, "Did it have a pleasant flavour?"

"A bit too much coconut. I've never been one for island flavours. I suppose it fit since the theme was supposed to be paradise that year. Certainly wasn't for me."

He glanced over at me. I imagined him in a red-stained tuxedo with a guilty look on his pubescent face and started laughing, quietly at first, and then he laughed with me, and we laughed so hard that we didn't notice the knocking on his door until the third or fourth try.

When he recognized the sound, his face turned blank.

"Shit," he muttered in a half-suppressed voice, and he was out of bed in seconds. "I'm sorry about this. You need to come with me. Quickly."

I was surprised by the level of resolution in his voice, as if some switch inside him had been triggered and the prospect of danger had pulled him apart from the usually mellow and passionless John. That was obviously what it was - danger - since his first priority was to get us both out of the house through the back window, where nobody would see.

He squeezed through first to set an unneeded example, assisted me, and then shut it carefully so that it didn't make a noise. His sights lingered on the top of the brick wall several yards away but he decided against that route, probably for my sake, and then took my hand and ran along it on ground-level instead.

All the while I'd said nothing, because my mind was back on high alert and I was trying to figure everything out for myself. The signs were simple enough to read.

"They know about this back way so we have to hurry. I'll explain everything after. Sorry," he told me again while we were running, but all I could focus on was the warmth of his hand as he led me forward, which made the danger seem far away and all its risks inconsequential. I knew that someone was after him with negative intentions, but that as long as he was with me he had nothing to fear; I had all the best intentions to cancel it out. I knew that the someone had either hired or was working in tandem with several others, but since they were more than likely all idiots I could easily find a way to take them down myself. I knew that John cared about me because he wasn't scared and he was running anyway, choosing to postpone and likely exacerbate the unpleasantry for a time when he could deal with it by himself. I found his actions to be brave rather than stupid.

I was suddenly irritated with myself because I wasn't supposed to care, and I did. I wasn't supposed to feel protective over a simple client, and I did.

Because John wasn't a simple client. He never had been.

Soon we emerged from the alleyways into the more populated suburbs, where we could blend in with the passerby, and he let go of my hand and leaned on the stone railing overlooking a lower street, preparing his story in his head. I stood beside him and gazed around, distinguishing impromptu weapons and escape routes just in case they managed to track us this far. I doubted they would.

"Last week, three burly fellows I recognized from university appeared at my doorstep and informed me that I had debts to repay. When I told them I had no idea what debts they were talking about, they forced passage and gave me a beating inside my own home. Apparently it was about a silly bet I made while drunk at one of the first parties I went to. Thank god it was also one of my last. I never fit in in the middle of all that rumpus." He glanced over at me as I joined him against the railing, satisfactorily aware of our surroundings. "Anyway, they told me they'd be back. Never did clarify how much they wanted in order for the debt to be repaid, and I don't remember."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, in the manner of the interested companion.

"I'll figure it out when I get there. No use calling the police. One of them has a brother in the police."

"Terribly convenient for him." I watched as he stared down at the pavement in contemplation. The excitable adventurer had retreated inside him once again. I missed it already, but there was nothing to do but move on. "There are some private rooms back at the club if you'd like someplace else to spend our time. They're generally put off for reservations, but I can't remember the last time all of them were occupied at once."

He considered. "I think I'd like that."

"Come on, then. I'll get your mind off the bullies in a hurry."

"I won't get hit on by another four fruitcakes within a minute of entering, will I? I'm getting a bit fed up with that."

"I can take my shirt off upon entering if you think that would distract them."

"It definitely would."

And it did, quite effectively, in fact.

"Dear god," I heard him say as I took him aside and entered one of the private rooms, locking the door behind us. The rooms were almost completely soundproof, blocking us out from the world outside so that any desired environment could be created. There was a old-fashioned record player for the romantic and a chest full of goodies for the hedonist. John made it very clear within the first few seconds that he didn't want to bother with these things. He had me up against the wall with his hands in my hair and his mouth relentless against mine. "To bed," he whispered between assaults, and it was a command meant for me to carry out, since he couldn't seem to stop himself. I guided him there, with some difficulty, through the forceful handling of his hips.

He pushed me beneath him and gazed over me from my eyes to my abdomen, entranced in the false oasis of my skin against the desolate backdrop of reality. There was a story in his eyes; he was alone, and every time he tried to find sanctuary it turned out to be another mirage, and he hoped beyond all hope that I wasn't one. I wanted to reassure him somehow, but I knew that any reassurance I gave would be just as false, a mirage within a mirage, and I didn't have the heart to plunge him into so deep an illusion. He already deserved better than me.

I could, however, remind him that he was allowed to take what he was paying for.

"You can touch, you know. I'm all yours this hour."

He smiled and pulled his hands from their unassuming position atop the sheets to run them over my skin, shoulders to hips. He had never touched me so deliberately. He always confined himself to what was necessary, as if he respected me too much to explore without permission, which was much more than any customer had ever done for me.

"Funny to think that a couple months ago I never would have found this attractive," he murmured.

"Now you can hardly look at me without popping your trousers open."

"You are _very_ skilled."

It wasn't until I unbuttoned his shirt and he winced, almost imperceptibly, that I saw the bruises. I shouldn't have been surprised, since he'd told me about the beating, but the size and multitude of them made me realize that his face, in contrast, was left completely untouched. Like I was the only one meant to see them.

"John," I started, trying to keep the logical side of my mind in full jurisdiction of my body, which was usually a simple and subconscious task. "Those men; do you clearly remember them to be present at the time of the bet?"

"I had a few encounters with them around campus. I can't remember seeing them at the party, but I hardly remember seeing anyone at the party."

"Did they bring it up first or did you ask them?"

"I asked if that was what it was about. They said it was."

My suspicions were confirmed. The bruises were a message for me, sent with regards from Miss Ginny. He must have located the bullies and paid them to give John a visit, with the promise that such an unsociable man would have some leftover score to settle that he would mention himself. The plan had been successful, and I was to blame.

"You alright?" he asked, glancing down at the clenched fist gripping his shirt. I forcibly calmed my demeanor and placed my hand on the back of his neck, looking up at him affectionately.

"I just don't like the thought of them hurting you."

If he was unsure before about whether or not I was genuine, the saccharine sentimentality of my excuse hit home somewhere in the outfield of his heart and overshadowed any logical doubt.

"Don't worry about me. I'll take care of them next time and then they won't bother me again."

He tangled his fingers in my hair and kissed me as though he loved me. I felt angry and guilty and wonderful all at the same time, when I should have been feeling nothing at all.

There was a vibration in my pocket that both of us felt. I wanted to believe that it was something innocuous when I knew that about this time during the month it could have only been one thing. One thing that would irreparably shatter the illusion; one thing that I could not ignore, for John's sake, even though it would seem like just the opposite to him.

I answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Mr. Hambleton would like to see you. Come outside immediately."

"I can't," I said, though I knew the conversation would end the same either way.

"Are you dying?"

"No."

"Then would you like me to forward the connection so you can explain to him personally why you can't?"

"No." I paused, and for a moment all I could see was John, watching patiently with the assumption that I would finish my call and then we would go right back to what we were doing. I couldn't, because I had an obligation to monetary efficiency, and if John was the cause of me breaking it, he would be ensured even more pain than before. "I'll be outside."

The line went flat. I returned my phone to its place and kissed John a last, gentle time before slipping out from beneath him.

"Where are you going?"

"Business meeting."

"What do you mean? You're a-" He stopped as realization dawned on his face. I had another client who was more important than him. "Oh."

"We'll see each other again soon?"

"Yeah," he responded glumly, and from the image of him sitting on the edge of the bed, partly unclothed, left behind, I assessed exactly how much damage had been done. I told myself I would make up for it somehow, someday, once I had figured out how to attain my freedom.

The road to Thomas Hambleton's little palace was driven in silence. I did not hate the chauffeur himself, seeing as he was only fulfilling his paid duties, but suddenly I hated his job description. God damn Thomas Hambleton's not-so-urgent needs.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that any damage had been done. Ordinarily his calls meant the opposite of inconvenience for me.

When I entered he was already prepared for me, concealed under the covers with folded red satin tied loosely around his neck. This was different. Under normal circumstances I might have been pleased.

I moved toward him, plastering a smile onto my face. He had a tube of lubrication and two matching lengths of thick red ribbon in his hands.

"Have no mercy," he told me as I crawled over him and took the first length of ribbon. I grabbed his wrist and secured it against the bed frame, pulling the tie so tight his lips formed a silent expression of surprise, and then did the same with the other. As I pulled the blindfold around his neck up to cover his eyes, I left the ghost of a kiss on his forehead.

Then I unclothed myself and did exactly what he had commanded me to. That evening he screamed louder than he ever had before.

* * *

When I was finished with Thomas Hambleton, I went home and straight into Miss Ginny's office. He wasn't surprised to see me.

"Such extreme consequences were completely uncalled for," I said, before he could spit out any sort of sappy greeting remark.

"You call that extreme? You underestimate me."

"I'd prefer if my clients were not harmed on my behalf."

"Don't bother trying to sound so professional, dear. I know how you feel about him. It happens to every employee at some point. Usually I let them go, but I haven't the heart to lose you yet."

"What do you mean, 'it happens'?"

There was a pause as he retrieved a cigarette from his desk drawer, stationed it gracefully between his crimson lips, and lit it. Interesting what a stickler for the rules he was with everyone else when, for some reason, they didn't even apply within his office. "You've fallen in love, dear," he declared.

"That's ridiculous. I simply don't think it fair to make someone else to suffer for my insufficiency."

"It's the only explanation for your recent actions. That insidious emotion has been implanted in your heart which naturally overrides all other established conventions, including our mission statement. You are not to blame. As such, I will use the life of John Watson to blackmail those…_defiant_ emotions."

"His _life_?" I uttered, my voice rising.

"I have friends in some very low places, Sherlock. Don't make it necessary for me to call on them."

His entire demeanor sickened me. He should not have known John's last name, or even his first. He had done his research thoroughly, and now that he was finally paying attention to our conversation, he was flaunting his ability to treat a man's life like a joke.

"I could call a police investigation and have this entire establishment shut down in a matter of hours," I suggested experimentally.

"But you won't, because I'd make sure John was dead by the time I saw my jail cell."

As I thought. After years of being in his service, I'd come to realize that Miss Ginny was slightly above the common idiot. He was latently gluttonous and therefore overcautious, which, paired with some level of intelligence, turned out to be a dangerous combo.

I made a point to glare at him with as much outward malice as was already manifest inside my mind, and said, "I could just kill you."

"My friends already know who to take revenge on if I die."

"Am I _really_ that critical to the success of this place?" I asked, and it came out sarcastic.

"No. But why give you up if I don't have to? You love him, so my scheme prevails. Ta-da! Such an unlucky emotion, love, but I'm sure you already knew that. Too bad you forgot it when you met John." He took a long drag from the cigarette, blew the smoke languidly in the general direction of my face, and then smiled cheerfully. "I will not prevent you from seeing him," he continued, lapsing into an even more light-hearted tone. "But if you stray from the guidelines of your contract again, you will lose your privilege."

"Understood," I finally said, my voice even, but when I got back to my room I threw a chair against the opposite wall. For the first time since my tumultuous childhood, I could hardly keep myself from screaming.

"Idiot," I hissed, hurling my fist against the wall shortly after the chair had reached its destination. "Arrogant _idiot_. It was not a game. I treated it like a game." I fell down onto the edge of my bed and clasped my hands together in front of my face, mentally retreating to the original conundrum, the problem I'd never solved, the roadblock. It was the source; it was the key to devising my escape from this pathetic thralldom and with it, John's safety. I had never before developed a stratagem for a plight I didn't fully comprehend, because I'd never had to. I always understood. I had to understand before I could resolve.

So what was it that was so troubling? Had John really put up the roadblock, or had I? Why did something so inherently simple seem so complicated?

Was this frustration, this anxiety, this weighted pit in the center of my stomach, the breathlessness caused by it, and by the depth in his eyes when he looked at me, the happiness that infected me when he smiled; was this love?


	6. A Bloody Bargain

Ahead of me the hired thugs were walking at full speed. I needed a way to bypass them. As dense as the architecture appeared in these parts, I'd come to find that no city wall was truly inscrutable. I scanned my internal map of England - quite useful to have these things memorized in case of unexpected inconveniences - and recognized the alleyway the bullies were turning into up ahead; it had low stairwells that I could use to reach the roof and skip expediently over the entire community. But that was no longer an option. They'd be watching their heels, and I couldn't let them see me.

The second best route was through the employees only section of the thrift store on the next block. I jogged to the front of the store and, on the way toward the back, borrowed a cowboy hat and flung a scarf around my neck, trying to ignore the disturbing fragrance of stale warehouse and old people that wafted up from it. The accessories were not strictly necessary, but they would throw any sort of investigation off-track if a senile employee happened to file one on me.

"If you're here to make a donation, the table is right next to the cash register..." one said as I was shoving past, but when I shouted an apology in a cheerful Scottish accent and hurried in the opposite direction of the cash registers, she gave no further signs of caring.

I emerged in the housing lot just beside John's community and gave myself two seconds to lose the accessories and look around. The trio of thugs passed right in front of me, arguing about something involving whores and sandwiches, so I tried not to take it personally and sprinted across the street toward John's back window, jumping the very wall he'd judged as too ambitious for me last time. I reached the window with half a minute to spare before the thugs reached his front door. It had been left unlocked.

John gave a violent start when I shoved it open and tumbled through onto the floor of his room. "What, for _heaven's_ sake, are you-!"

"No time to explain. Just answer the door and act natural."

"There's no one at the-"

He was interrupted by the muffled sound of fist on wood coming from the front of the flat, and looked at me incredulously. I gestured for him to answer it, throwing in a smile just for good measure.

"Nearly gave me a heart attack," he mumbled as he straightened his overturned chair. As soon as he started for the door, I began the task of wrenching open his drawers. It took much longer than I would have liked to sift through the excess of jumpers I found and finally extract a hoodie, which I paired with sweatpants and the casual loafers beside his bed. The right sort of personality for this occasion could not be achieved in dress pants and button-downs at ten in the morning; as tempting as it was to play the suave business associate, it would ring far less alarm bells to play the shady mate with connections. More ambiguous. More believable, in John's case. I didn't expect the bullies to have been told much about their job, other than that they had an unassuming little man to intimidate.

When I arrived near the door, stretching as if I'd been sitting in a chair in front of a computer all morning as was my daily agenda, they seemed to just be finishing their introductions.

"Look, I'm not sure what you want, but I'll gladly give it to you if I have it, which I probably don't. So you are most likely wasting your time," John was saying, in cheeky monotone, and to use the word cheeky was generous. Sassy seemed more like the right term. I wondered if his previous beating could be owed more to his attitude than to the thugs' actual instructions.

"Sounds like the little shit's forgotten his lesson," spat the one who hadn't noticed me yet, turning to his accomplice. "Think we should give him a reminder?"

"I wouldn't recommend that," I uttered with an influence of the low town drawl in my voice, leaning over John's shoulder. All three of the ugly mutts glared at me as if I'd just stamped horse manure on their foreheads with an old shoe. It seemed probable to me that part of the disgust in their expressions could be attributed to their own perpetual ugliness. No wonder they chose the life of petty crime.

"I'd recommend keeping those brass knuckles in your pocket, too," I continued, glancing at the hand he had stashed in the inside of his coat. "My father taught me Krav Maga when I was growing up. I've got a great memory. I could disarm you in seconds."

Knuckles didn't appear pleased. "We haven't been introduced," he stated, in his most gruff and intimidating voice, making him sound like a complete idiot.

"Avery Talbot, at your service," I said, slipping past John into the front entryway and holding out my hand. He shook it with brusque reluctance.

"That's not your real name, is it?"

"No," I responded, smiling. "I could give you my real name, but I think you'd eventually figure that one's fake as well."

"Mr. Nobody from Nowheresville, eh?" scoffed one of his buddies, who had a neat little scar draped above his eyebrow. He probably thought he was being clever. "I think it's about time you realize that you're poking your head into something that's none of your business."

"Actually, it is my business." I paused, and then leaned close enough to where only Knuckles could hear me, and possibly his companions, who inclined toward me in badly-concealed curiosity. Instinctively, he tensed, indicating that he had almost knocked me out right then and there. "Just between you and me, I know who sent you here. I know the flashy arse - not on a personal basis, mind you - and I know how he works. I know that he wouldn't take kindly to any harm being sent his way on behalf of a bunch of insects like you." I pulled the difference between Thomas Hambleton's most recent payment and the amount he usually paid - a sizable amount that, nevertheless, wouldn't be missed - out of my pocket and held it up between us, shifting backward to put a comfortable distance back between us. "So this should take care of any debts my mate here owes, whatever they may be. Just tell the arse what he wants to hear and all our troubles will be gone."

"Why should I believe you?" he barked, again in that moronically pseudo-threatening voice.

"I have no other proof, so feel free to try your luck, but I don't see why anyone would choose that gamble when they could take the money and get off easy. After all, he's got badder friends than I do. People who'd have no qualms about, say, deleting unneeded history from their record books."

After a severely suspenseful period of time in which the thugs pretended they had enough brainpower to consider their options thoughtfully, Knuckles snatched the money from my hand and turned around, cocking his head as a gesture for the other two to follow. Then he stopped, turned halfway toward me, and held two beckoning fingers up. "Come here a minute. I'd like to talk to you in private."

I glanced at John, who was already shaking his head at me. "This is my problem. I won't have you-"

"I know how to deal with this better than you do."

"That is absolute no-"

"Please. One minute. Trust me for one minute."

"It's not you I don't trust-"

"Please."

I don't believe he would have done it for anyone but me, but at that moment he bit back the rest of his complaints and just stared at me disapprovingly.

"Stay here," I told him softly, before following the trio out. "Please." I closed the door behind me, watching as we moved further away, but the four of us made it around the block, out of sight, without anyone else emerging from the flat. As soon as they stopped in the alleyway, I had a good idea of what they were planning to do.

"I came here to use my fists," Knuckles announced, pulling his brass-clad hand out of his pocket for the first time. "And since you're so eager to save your little friend, I figured I'd offer you the opportunity to switch places with him. It's this-" He took a couple steps toward me, holding his fist up as if it would scare me. "Or no deal."

I didn't react. Scarface swung at my side and I instinctively threw my arm out to divert it. Then he grinned, revealing a set of teeth that was half-yellow, half-missing. "You think you're allowed to fight back?"

"Oh, come on," I retorted, not surprised in the least. "You don't even fight for sport? Just sadistic pleasure? It's a bit pathetic, don't you think?"

If I had chosen to, I could have ducked and escaped as the lesser two reached for my arms, but instead I did nothing. I already knew that it would have been a better move to let Miss Ginny's plan run its course, to let my punishment fall on John so that our usual routine could continue unaltered. I'd known that all along, and I was interfering anyway.

The man swung, and then there was pain; a white hot bolt of pain across my face, and the flame trickled down my cheek until I tasted the metallic tang of blood on my lips. He dug his grimy fingers through the roots of my hair, yanked my head up, and hissed, _"Do we have a deal?"_

The decision was thoughtless, because at the time, John was the only thing on my mind, my only motivation to endure, no matter what they decided to do to me. I was so used to being in control, so used to fighting back, that instead of staying in character and giving them a simple yes, I said, "So long as you keep your disgusting breath to yourself and hit me already."

The pain was renewed just below my ribs, and I lurched forward but refused to let anything out of my mouth except blood. I wouldn't give them the pleasure.

"Careful. We don't want him dead. He'll last longer if you use bare fists," the third one said. I safely judged him to be the most intelligent of the group, which wasn't saying much.

The next time he hit me I felt flesh, and the pain wasn't white hot but a mild yellow. He kept moving. There was an apex of pain and after that it was easy. I estimated a minute and a half had passed, maybe two. They carried out their work efficiently.

Suddenly I was aware of my back hitting a wall. I felt dizzy; so dizzy that the wall could have just as easily been the ground if not for the fact that the ugly bastard was still in front of me, pounding me into the bricks. I was not consciously aware of when the assault stopped, only that I was reeling over with black spots swimming through my vision when I heard John calling me. There were footsteps: the thugs leaving, and John running toward me.

"Right, and don't come back!" he was screaming, almost incoherently. "Because if you do, _I'll sodding murder you!_"

Then he had his arm around my waist and his other hand holding mine over his shoulders and he was asking me if I was alright.

"Yes, just, frazzled," I answered, trying to regain my footing as he led me back the way he'd come.

"For god's sake, you're a bit more than frazzled. In fact, you're _covered in your own blood_ and I should not, I should not have let you go, I should have known-" He cut himself off with a final swear, seeming to know that if he let himself continue, his speech would have deteriorated into a string of unintelligible curses.

"It's alright," I muttered as we stumbled along. "It wasn't your fault. I'm alright."

When we reached the flat he led me straight into the bathroom, seated me on the closed toilet, and removed my upper garments. There was a loud clatter which I presumed to be medical supplies transferring from the cabinet onto the counter. He brushed my hair back and re-lit the flame on the side of my face, and I cried out because I wasn't prepared for it this time.

"What the hell have I done to you?" he uttered, mostly to himself, as he patted that particular wound clean.

"Nothing. They did- ...It was entirely worth it," I mumbled, just as a wave of vertigo pushed me off my seat into the side of the tub. He kept saying things, comforting phrases, as he tried to set me upright again, but when he realized it wasn't working he placed his hands on my shoulders, straddled me, and waited for me to meet his eyes.

"Are you sure you're all right? Did they hit you in the head at all?"

"I don't...think.."

"Alright," he asserted, realizing that speaking was still a difficulty for me. "Must have been the wall." His brow strained as he grabbed a different ointment and tended to my other cheek, and then the gash just below the right side of my ribs, which flared in agony the moment in came in contact with whatever he was using. If my assailant had aimed any higher, he most likely would have cracked something. "They did a lot more to you than they did to me," he said, his voice pained.

"You know what you're doing," I stated, hoping to bring his attention away from that fact. He humored me, but somehow I didn't believe he would forget.

"My sister and I got into a lot of trouble when we were kids. I paid attention when Mum took care of us."

"Most children don't."

"Well, I'm glad I did. Especially now." He watched me as he wiped the remaining smudges of blood off my face, careful not to irritate anything further. "I always found it interesting."

I remembered the pamphlet on his kitchen table the first night we met; it made sense now that it was his sister's suggestion to learn at Bart's.

"Will you answer something for me honestly?" he asked, setting down the washcloth. I felt reasonably conscious enough to hold a conversation with him now.

"I'll try my best."

"Do you have something to do with those bastards?"

"No."

"How did you know they'd be here today? At this hour?"

"I didn't," I answered, honestly this time. "I was walking to the grocery store when I saw them headed your way."

"You've never seen them before," he stated firmly, and for a moment - just a moment - there was suspicion in his eyes. Suspicion that I, for whatever reason, was plotting against him. I hated it more than I could understand.

"No, but I knew what they _would_ look like. Ugly, falsely intimidating, about the same age as you, and more than one. I also knew that one would be left-handed, and he had his left hand fingering the brass knuckles in his pocket the entire way here."

"How?"

I brought a trembling hand to his waistline and pulled up his shirt, revealing the fading traces of black and blue scattered across the skin beneath. "More on your right side than your left."

"Right," he conceded, after a pause. "Almost forgot that you're a bloody genius."

I smiled, letting the fabric fall down to its proper place. "Comfortable?"

He remembered that he was sitting on me and quickly slid off, holding his hands out a moment to make sure I was stable before moving away. I watched as he braced himself on the counter, gazing downward as if there was something more remarkable than blood swirling down the drain.

"Something is still bothering you," I said. "My condition, obviously. But something else as well."

He shook his head as if to deny it, but gave in after a pause. "I can't shake the feeling that you're trying to hide things from me. I know that you're a prostitute, so I shouldn't care. I know that whatever relationship we have is..." He drew a slow, miserable breath. "For the most part, fake. I know that. So why would you do this for me?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know how to answer, because I didn't fully know the answer myself.

"The man who called you last week... Who was it?"

"What?" I asked, even though I'd heard him.

"Who called you last week, when we were at the club? Was it your boyfriend?"

As soon as I understood his train of thought, I started chuckling. It wasn't a demeaning chuckle, but one of amusement, relief, adoration, all of the above. "No," I answered, quietly. "I don't have anything like that."

"Who was it?"

"Long-time customer. He's ridiculously rich. It wasn't even him that called me; it was the chauffeur."

He visibly relaxed, and for a while he paced around the bathroom. Then he turned abruptly toward me, setting his hands on his hips. A nervous gesture; I'd never seen him do it before.

"Would you, erm, want to go somewhere with me? Spend the day together, maybe the night, and have a bit of fun?"

"Where?"

"Anywhere you want to go. I was thinking of visiting Wales, if that appeals to you."

"I've heard it's a popular tourist destination," I said, hiding my aversion to the fact. "When are you going?"

He shrugged. "Anytime you have a day off."

"I would have to charge more than the usual wage."

Suddenly I saw an inexplicable desperation in his eyes, the type a man gets when he's been searching and searching for something he wants and the moment it's in front of him he realizes he can never have it, and then the desperation turned to hardened melancholy as he turned to leave the room. "I'm sorry, I'm...I'm being silly. Forget it."

I hadn't even remotely considered that John was trying to ask me on a date until that moment.

It was too dangerous. I knew how to throw off Miss Ginny's surveillance for a day, but the methods were not foolproof. It was dangerous for him and it was dangerous for the sake of our continued association. It was utterly nonsensical to accept the offer.

Yet I couldn't let him walk away thinking he didn't mean something more to me. I couldn't risk his heartbreak, and I couldn't risk the possibility of him not coming to see me again. I jolted upright to grab his wrist.

It was possibly one of the most selfish things I'd ever done.

"Forgive me. I misinterpreted the question." My lips felt dry, my voice weak. "I'd love to go."

"Free of charge?"

"Of course. Would next Sunday be favorable?"

"Should be."

I let go out of his arm and held my palm out, ignoring the bolt of pain that shot through my shoulder. That would be gone in a day or two. "Let me see your phone."

"What for?" he asked, extracting it from his pocket and handing it over anyway. I pressed a dozen buttons, waited for the device in my own pocket to vibrate, and then shut his off and handed it back to him.

"I'll call you if I find out there are any conflicts. Things are...erratic, at the club. To say the least."

Suddenly he was smiling ear-to-ear. Smart enough to realize that I didn't give my phone number out to anyone.

After a couple seconds he headed out of the bathroom. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I was following him out, and the damage didn't look as bad as I'd thought it would. Part of that, I figured, could be owed to John's expertise, and I was grateful.

"Is there anything I can do for you while you're here? Food, tea, coffee?" he asked, turning to me.

"No, but thank you for the offer. I've actually got to get going."

"You sure?"

"I've served my purpose here." I started changing back into my original clothing, trying not to flinch as I did so. He watched me absentmindedly, as if he was wondering why I'd changed in the first place, but didn't question it.

"I'm sorry, about..."

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I'm just glad I was here to divert them. That should be their last visit, by the way."

"Thank you," he said, grudgingly. I stood up straight and for a moment we both stood silently, unsure of how to behave in a non-business setting. Then I breached the gap and pecked his lips, and it seemed to be exactly what he had been waiting for. He rested his hand on the back of my neck, pulled me back in, and didn't let go. I got the point that he didn't want me to leave. He didn't want me to have to leave. I admitted to myself that I preferred his home much better than my own. But like all goodbye kisses, it came to an end, and with my reckless choices hanging over my shoulders there was no guarantee of a next time.

I started on my way to the pharmacy rather than the grocery store when I left, since it had become necessary to buy makeup to cover up the mess I'd made. There would be no way to take a break from the club, so I would have to keep my distance from Miss Ginny and hope for the best.


	7. Dependence

The night I intended to ask permission for a vacation day, I spent extra time in the mirror covering my half-healed scars. I knew that Miss Ginny wasn't going to make it easy for me to take a day off, and I didn't need him complicating things even further by noticing that I'd been banged up by the same men he'd hired to make neat work of John.

I hated makeup, but thankfully it was simple enough to learn how to use. Face makeup, in any case. I can't imagine willfully putting a pointy black chemically-composed thing within millimeters of my eye. I'd seen a few of my coworkers doing it, and a few times, in the beginning when they didn't know me, they even tried to get me to join the bandwagon.

When I looked fully presentable, I entered his office without knocking and stood before his desk, hands clasped respectfully behind my back. He closed the door when he didn't want to be bothered, but at this point that wouldn't have daunted me anyway. I came and went as I pleased knowing that he wouldn't do anything about it, save complain, which was usually amusing.

"Need something?" he asked, imparting a single half-second glance upward to see who I was.

"I'd like to use one of my vacation days. Sunday, September 29th. I'd leave Sunday morning and be back here on Monday in time for the evening rush."

That had his attention perked, only because the unique situation with John had him on alert. He looked up at me and droned, "What for?"

"I have no obligation to tell you."

"I'm just _curious_."

"Your curiosity will have to restrain itself. According to my contract I am entitled the same rights as any other employee."

He shot me a meaningful look, the corners of his lips just hinting at a smirk. "According to the law, I'm not allowed to get people killed for convenience."

I kept my outward composure despite the fact that I wanted to take the pen on his desk and jab it directly into his jugular just for mentioning that. John's life was not a joke. John's health was not a joke. I had made the mistake of not acknowledging that before, and it wasn't going to happen again, so I assessed the situation carefully. If I refused to tell Miss Ginny my plans, he would simply not allow me to take the day. If I made an issue of it, he would call his sadistic friends to enact a premature revenge.

"I'll be visiting my parents," I said, and all at once I had his full attention.

He leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised, and by the time he opened his mouth I already knew what he was going to say. "That's surprising. I remember like yesterday the first time I met you; all the moving stories you had to tell. How eager you were to accept my offer for the very purpose of getting away from them."

I said nothing.

"Don't think that you can keep escaping to others to solve your problems, Sherlock."

"I'm not trying to escape anything. I'm having the bollocks to face the original problem so that it can be resolved properly, like I should have in the first place."

"Let me rephrase, then," he jeered. "I'm proud of you for growing up enough to realize that you screwed yourself over. But don't think that the same escape route that worked to get away from them will work on me."

He was suggesting that I might look to my parents for recourse. I masked my face with plain disgust. "Oh, God. I said I wanted to resolve the problem, not become friends with them. I think you misunderstood my request."

As his shoulders relaxed against his chair and his head fell into its detestable casual tilt, I recognized that he was reassured. He didn't like the idea, but he was confident enough of my intentions to allow it. "Alright. I'll have Dominic come in on Sunday in your place. Enjoy yourself."

"There will hardly be any enjoyment involved. Only relief," I said, then I turned on my heels and left before I had to hear a single further thing out of his mouth.

* * *

I hated buses. Always had. Perhaps it was the subconscious connotation of isolation and ridicule that my elementary school classmates had attributed to them. In this sea of people with their grim expressions and luggage and intangible spheres of personal space that invoked glares and curt remarks if infringed upon, I felt that familiar aching pang of discomfort that had become so familiar all those years ago. Even now, as adults that had much better things to focus on, whose eyes remained on their phone screens or off on a place distant from reality, the feeling was there, leftover.

But it was necessary. This bus traveled straight past my parents' house and then onward to the outskirts of Wales. This route was my best chance of executing my plan inconspicuously.

The ride, including the final taxi commute, took five hours total. John had suggested that we travel together, which would have made it a hundred times more bearable for both of us, but for obvious reasons I refused. We planned to meet in Gwynedd and stay the night at a bed and breakfast on the isle of Llanddwyn. I had never been to Wales. All I had were obscure names and the promise of pastoral beauty as seen in photographs online.

I had the cab drop me off on a rural road leading up toward Penrhyn Castle, where the entrance booth was located. I paid the fee and went on my way. The view was cold and green and empty for miles around, but when the castle came into view, the afternoon sun set it alight. Leaves dressed the sides like continents, emerald textures fading softly into the fires of autumn, a painting on a canvas of stone.

There were other tourists walking around. Not many, but enough to spoil my moment of enthrallment within seconds of its beginning. I traveled off the path and followed the perimeter of the castle until I was alone in its shadow. Then John called.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

"Are you here yet?"

"Yes, I'm standing on the east side of Penryhn."

"There's no path in that direction."

"Forget the path. It's prettier over here."

"Ah- Well, alright. I'll come find you."

When I saw him round the corner I hung up the phone. Neither of us smiled or gave greeting. For a moment I thought that something was wrong, that he expected the same Dimitri he'd met at the club and was disappointed when he noticed that my behavior had taken on a different tone. I stared up at the canvas of stone to avoid his eyes.

But the first thing he said, staring solemnly up at the same canvas, was, "Before we do anything, you should know that I don't want you putting up any sort of act today. I want to get to know the real..." And I realized that he hadn't even noticed the change in me, because he'd been too busy worrying. So I turned my head, slid my fingers along his cheek, and leaned over to kiss him, and that shut him up nicely.

"That came from me," I said as I pulled away. "The real me."

He smiled as a charming reassurance flickered in his eyes. "So the real you is forward as well?"

"Only for things that he wants. Which aren't many."

"Are you saying that you're humble and appreciative?"

"Not even close." I felt myself smirk as I grabbed his hand and headed toward the castle. "I'm saying that there aren't many things good enough to be desirable to me."

There was a single door on that side of the fort, hiding between two protruding towers and partially shrouded in vines. The rusty hinges creaked open and we stepped forth straight into a storybook. A medieval playground free for us to explore, as long as we remained respectful toward the remnants of history.

"Where are we going?" he asked, bewildered, as I moved forward and took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, still pulling him along with me.

"Don't sound so perturbed. This place was your idea." The hallway on the second floor contained two tourists looking over the railing with cameras in hand, whom I brushed past without a second thought on to the next stairway. I felt his fingers loosen their grip on mine for a second, a subconscious movement, an indication of public insecurity.

"Yes, but you're hardly allowing any chance for sightseeing."

"Old dusty rooms are boring. Wouldn't you rather stand where a Welsh soldier once stood, gun in hand, protecting his enclave?"

"The battlements? You think we'll be able to get up there?"

"Of course we'll be able to," I said, stepping over a red boundary cord to reach the third staircase in the lobby beyond. It was one of those fancy cords hung loose between two golden posts, stating the clear message, 'I can't personally stop you from breaking the rules, but my superiors sure can sue you for it.' The area must have been closed off for specifically-appointed tours.

"Dimitri, what I meant was-" he started, and I felt a momentary resistance in his arm before he followed me over, eyes searching the ceilings for cameras. "I don't think this is a good idea."

The final stairway led straight up into a tower, where the breeze rinsed us of the aromas of antiquity and welcomed us along the rampart. I let go of John's hand, and he stopped as soon as he turned his head toward the land below us.

The valley appeared endless. We were on a ship amid a sea of green, with farm fields boxed in by hedgerows and specks of cottages scattered about the waves. I suppose that was the moment he forget about our impropriety, or decided that it was worth it. He opened his mouth as if to say something but simply gazed in silent awe.

"A bit better than an old dusty room?" I asked.

He conceded. "The pictures don't do it justice."

As he was gazing out I ran my fingers along the merlons, some of which were overgrown with moss. Scenery had never deeply affected me like it did other people. It was a convenience, a pleasant background for the things that were worth paying attention to.

"You always do that," he said, and I saw that he had torn his eyes away from the view to watch me.

"What?"

"Look at ordinary things as if there's something remarkable about them."

"It's not the thing itself that's remarkable. It's the marks that have been left on it."

"What do you mean?"

I looked at him, and then pointed at the various nicks on the top of the parapet. "These marks are from swords. Over there, the stone is smoother, and there's an indent on the tower where the spearheads rested. Guards put their weapons there when they stopped to rest."

He stared at the alcove between wall and tower that I had indicated, noticing the impressions himself. "But that doesn't tell us much, does it? Only that this castle was at some point involved in war."

"Except that this castle never had a military purpose. Judging by its good condition it's probably a mock castle, modeled after a much older one that fell into ruins. The aristocratic family that commissioned it centuries ago had children who would play with swords up here. The indents angle upward because they were hit from a low height. They're also concave, not sharp cuts. The blades were blunted."

He examined the marks again, almost as if I had lied to him. "I don't believe you," he said, though the approbation was clear on his face.

"I know I'm right, so I don't care if you believe me," I replied. He looked up at me with his lips slightly parted, indignant. I restrained a smile. "Still want to get to know the real me, or do you prefer the escort?"

"There are parts I miss about him," he said simply, which surprised me.

"Which parts?"

"His willingness to make _me_ feel special rather than a stone wall."

I stared at him, cocked my head playfully, and turned away from him to continue walking. "Stone wall's more interesting."

"I know you don't mean that." His footsteps followed mine.

"Of course I don't."

"You don't," he asserted, and I felt a tug at my sleeve. "Because stone walls can't do this." He wheeled me around against him and grabbed onto my hair as he pressed his lips against mine. Perhaps it was an illusion, but I felt the entire fort capsize beneath my feet, and I was sinking into the emerald waves without anything left to protect me except the embrace. I could breathe as long as he kept his lips against mine, inexplicably supplying oxygen, and for the first time I was entirely dependent upon someone else and I was terrified.

Afterward, my breath deserted me, and he grinned as though he'd caused it with sheer delight. He didn't see the terror in my eyes, and I was terrified to let him see it. I pulled him close and rested my cheek against his head, where he couldn't see me gasping for a substance that wasn't there. Suddenly the world was intimidating like it never had been before, and desolate anywhere John wasn't, and I felt lost. Not lost at that moment. Lost if I ever had to be without him.

"Better than a stone wall, hm?" he said, and I heard the pride in his voice.

After a long while I pulled away, and I studied his face before letting go of him completely. That momentary glance before I moved past him and proceeded along the walkway, silently, feeling lost; that was when I knew.

* * *

In the evening, when we arrived at The Oaks, we received a warm welcome from the owners. The other guests were already in their bedrooms, and it was unspoken between John and me that we would have rather forgone the introductions for the morning and gone straight to bed.

As I closed the door behind us he stepped into the center of the room, turning his back to me. "Nice place," he said, for the sake of small talk. "Bathroom, alarm clock, big window, king bed..."

I came up behind him and trailed my fingers from shoulders to lower back, tenderly, ending at the front of his trousers.

"Plenty of water bottles. And pillows. Why do they think we need so many pillows?" he continued, as if he were unfazed.

"More to grab onto," I muttered against his neck, working a palm against his groin. "More cushioning so you can pound me into the bed as hard as you wish."

His breath hitched in his throat. "In becoming the real you, you certainly haven't lost your expertise."

"No," I said, lowering my voice. "That's something I'll always have, John." I pinched the skin of his neck between my teeth and that was when he lost it, his hand gripping my pants at the thigh for support. "Why don't we lay down?"

"Yes," was all he could get out without moaning in anticipation, and by the time we hit the bed our tongues were tied. Through all my experiences, all the beds I'd ever shared, I had never felt anything like it before. Clothes came off piece by cherished piece. I was hard against his thigh and he could feel it, but neither of us were rushing, because this would be the first night we spent together by pure unadulterated choice, and tomorrow would be the first morning he'd wake up with me still beside him.

I gripped his upper arms and shifted our bodies around atop the sheets, since he'd seemed content to keep himself beneath me thus far. His lips met my neck and as the warmth of his tongue trailed down my chest I wondered why it was such a foreign sensation. Then I realized that the barrier was gone, that all the deferential self-control he'd previously exhibited had turned to pure physical adulation, since I was, without question, here by choice; here for him, and only him.

"Dimitri-"

"Sherlock," I half-gasped, trying with everything I had to maintain my own self-control, but it was leaving me so fast I couldn't keep track of it let alone correct it. The strange part was that I didn't care anymore. I wanted him to see every part of me and know every part of me and touch every part of me; and god, if he didn't touch every part of me I didn't think I would ever recover from it. "My real name. It's Sherlock Holmes."

For a moment he stared at me in puzzlement, and I tried to understand what was happening between my failure to act myself and the fear that he wouldn't take it well and the infuriating tingles his lips had left behind on my skin. Then he smiled and repeated, "Sherlock," like it was something of invaluable worth.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"It's unusual. So it fits you."

"Bad unusual?"

"No. Uncommonly brilliant and lucky and unappreciated and completely amazing unusual." His face was buried in my neck again, his fingers tangled in my hair, his teeth grazing the shell of my ear. My heart pounding.

"I'm not lucky," I protested. I didn't believe in luck, but it took too many syllables to say that for the amount of breath I had.

"I meant you're lucky in that you're the luckiest thing that's ever happened to me."

I turned my head to meet his lips, all the while thinking that if luck did in fact exist, it had boasted the absolute extent of its influence when a straight man accidently walked into a gay strip club just in time to be barely convinced to stay awhile by an escort who at that time, didn't have a heart.

"I want to know what it's like."

"What what's like?"

"How it feels for you whenever we do this. Being bottom," he said, shooting me a look that evinced his determination on the manner. It was something he'd been thinking about for a while now; during the last couple visits I'd noticed his increased interest in the procedures, his offhand questions, his subtle observations.

It didn't take me so much as two seconds to flip him beneath me again and reach for my discarded pants hanging off the edge of bed, where I'd stored a condom and a portable lubricant. "Brave of you," I remarked as I coated several fingers with the substance, and he recognized it as a sarcastic comment.

"Thus far I've enjoyed screwing you, Sherlock, but it's unfair."

We shared a smile that was appreciative of both his humor, and, not the actual use of my real name, but the intangible privilege, and the bond that had inadvertently formed when I relinquished it to him. A bond that had already existed in the seemingly paradoxical congruity of our characters, the accidental inseparability, and had only just come to light. It had snuck up on me without me realizing it, and grown, and become stronger and more dangerous with every passing day, and I felt so _stupid_ for not noticing it until it had revealed itself along with the unconstrained utterance of Sherlock Holmes, but now that it had, it made every bit of sense.

Earlier, I'd known I was in love, and I was terrified of it. Now I understood what it meant, what it was, and I was still terrified, but not quite as much. I knew the way past the roadblock. The answer to feeling secure again was a promise of forever with John. Whatever the nature of that forever might be, I would find it and ensure it.

"Relax," I said, forefinger gently probing the surface of a virgin entrance, and as I kissed him I felt the tension ease just enough to comfortably push the digit inside. He took it well, his arms around my neck, fully focused on the kiss, until I dared a second and he bit my lip.

"Fuck, I'm sor-"

"Don't," I interrupted, kissing him again before he could redirect his focus, all the while sliding my fingers back and forth to get him used to the motion. I incorporated the third without difficulty, but parted from his lips just beforehand so his yelp of surprise was lost to the heated air between us.

"Not- Not so bad," he said, his breathing considerably quickened. I trailed my kisses to his neck, continuing the motion a dozen more times. Then I removed all three fingers and pulled a section of sheets toward his mouth.

"Bite," I instructed him. "We should try not to disturb the other guests." He complied, and the moment he did I put myself in position and made the movement all at once. His groan of pain came out muffled behind the fabric, and instead of grabbing onto me he dug his nails into the sheets at his sides, refusing any betrayal of his willingness. I immediately set my hips moving at the same pace as before.

"Shit," he muttered sharply upon unclenching his jaw from the sheets, and to balance out his discomfort I brought a hand to his cock and began to stroke. Gradually I picked up the pace on both fronts, letting myself sink deeper and deeper into unbridled ecstasy, drinking in his quiet cries as they evolved into brief moans. There was a point where I pushed harder and his chest jumped and his eyelids fluttered closed in a delight that he, perhaps, didn't understand himself, and from that point on I was pushing hard every time until his back was arched off the bed and his lips begging 'Sherlock' despite all their dignity and his hands desperately searching my back for adhesion that wasn't there.

We made a mess of the sheets, and as usual I simply threw the worst ones aside for later attention. Then I lay beside him and watched the rise and fall of his chest, the proof that here lived a man who I thought would not, could not, exist.

He didn't speak until the lights were off and both of us fully relaxed, my arm draped over his abdomen and afraid to let go. It was the best he could think of as a topic of conversation, and nothing else, because he didn't want his first night with the real me to end just yet. "I had no idea that was what you went through every time."

"It's not. You get used to it."

"Then is it all the pleasure without the pain?"

"Not quite."

"I love you."

For a moment I forgot to breathe. I forgot everything. Just as I had got my mind working again and decided that there was no harm in saying it back because it was the truth, he spoke again, without disappointment or even discouragement, not ever having expected a response at all. He was too good for that.

"I'm going to med school. I'm going to make a living and then I'm going to get you out of that dump." He paused. "You don't belong there. You never did."

Then I remembered everything. Miss Ginny. The thugs. The threats. The restrictions.

He turned his head toward me and asked, "If I do that, will you come with me?"

"I-" Nothing came. I searched and thought and planned, and nothing came. I couldn't lie to him anymore. But more than that, for his own _safety_, for god's sake, I couldn't tell him the truth. "John, I..."

He shifted onto his side and wrapped his arms around me, asking nothing further. "It's alright. We'll talk about that when we get to it." He pressed his lips against my forehead, a goodnight kiss. "Just...know that I'm here for you, and whether I'm to be a part of it or not, someday you're going to get the best life I can possibly give you."

It amazed me how determined he was, without knowing all the variables, without even knowing if I loved him or not. He had decided upon a conclusion before an experiment.

It was my job to conduct the experiment. I knew the variables. I knew that I loved him. At the very least, I owed him a correct hypothesis, and to achieve that the experiment had to be just right.

One incorrect step could result in death.


	8. The Game Begins

In the morning I almost thought I was dreaming. Reality had never begun for me with tranquility, not since the first few years of my existence, before I had a consciousness, and even then I can't imagine greeting my parents amicably from the crib. As I child I woke to confusion; as a teenager, foreboding; as a young man finding his first refuge in a strip club, discomfort.

Today I woke to a dreamlike serenity. No thoughts. No dread. Just remembrance.

Through the telltale light falling past unfamiliar blinds I saw the truth in my memories, figments of last night, like dust in the amber air, and I heard phrases in his voice that I was almost certain would never be meant for me. There was a waking movement on the bed beside me as he turned to search for the lover he'd drifted away from in sleep. With my back to him I couldn't see him, but I could imagine every gesture, every nuance, and for the first time I fit into the picture right alongside him.

I weaved my fingers through his as they found their place against my abdomen, and upon knowing I was awake he mumbled, "Good morning, sweetheart."

"Good morning," I mumbled back, turning my head to get a glimpse of him, but as soon as I was in reach he greeted me with a kiss.

"It's nice you're here. You should stay the night more often."

"I work late."

"I know," he said simply. It was an invitation, a reminder that he would help me quit and become only his, physically as well as emotionally. We lay there for awhile, eyes half-closed and blurry with the morning, before the smell of sausage and fresh croissants wafted into the room and he asked, "You hungry?"

"I can wait a bit."

"Good."

We didn't get out of bed until twenty minutes and a dozen morning kisses later.

Over breakfast we met the other guests, during which time I unsuccessfully tried to restrain myself from making deprecatory appraisals of every one of them. At times John would shoot me warning glances, only for me to catch him smiling at me moments later, sharing silent appreciation, in love.

The goodbyes were quick and unremarkable. John and I were there for each other, and the remainder of the date was spent just that way.

As the softly shining run rose to the center of the sky, we walked along the shoreline of the isle of Llanddwyn. There I found that unfamiliar thing again: peace. There was nothing to analyze; the land lay undisturbed. There was just us and the sand and the rolling ocean, which were all self-explanatory now. By myself I would have gotten bored very quickly, but he kept me there in graceful respite with all his little philosophies and childhood tales, and in just a few short hours he taught me how to appreciate.

On the mainland we grabbed a lunchtime snack and then headed to the bus stop. He looked around apprehensively as we seated ourselves, asking, "Are you sure you don't want to take a cab?"

"Completely. The fare is ridiculous for long trips."

"I'll pay for the both of us."

"No, it's alright. There are things you still want to do here, and there are things I need to do in London."

"Sherlock."

"What?"

He shot me something close to a glare, but more affectionate. I smiled. He glanced over my shoulder; the bus was approaching in the distance. I stood up.

"Thank you for this. Sincerely," I said.

He stood up all at once and kissed me in front of everyone on the street, and though the people weren't many, something had changed. He wouldn't have cared if there were a hundred onlookers.

As I walked away I felt as though I was leaving the easeful arms of an angel, and throughout the long bus ride home my mind was a void of hopes and kisses and everything irrational.

When I stepped through the back door of the club and the amorous music started pounding up through my soles, everything became clear again. I was back at home, and it wasn't home. Not anymore. I knew what I had to do, though it wouldn't be easy to succeed.

The door to Miss Ginny's office was locked. He wouldn't arrive for several more hours. I glanced toward the main lobby to confirm that all of the present employees were occupied, and then shut off the hallway lights to obscure my undertaking from prying eyes. In the darkness I picked the lock with a tool I had acquired a long time ago, when I'd needed it to keep myself fed and sheltered, and without sticking anything into the room besides my arm I dropped to my knees and felt along the wall for the camera wire. It was there, taped up against the baseboard and following the doorframe up to a camera just above the door. An inconvenient place for a camera, but I knew he had it there for a reason; his computer screen, and the questionable items and documents sometimes hiding beside it, couldn't be seen from that angle. I tugged a free section of wire until I felt the plug on the other end pull loose. Then I stood up, entered, and closed the door behind me.

It took me a dozen tries to input the right password into his computer; thankfully he hadn't installed a lock-out security measure. After that it was easy to find the information I needed. He had forwarded my profile to two professional stalkers, four personal friends, and a private investigator. The investigator had already done his work; he'd replied with my extensively boring life history and its purported psychological effects, ninety-percent of which were false. Perhaps if I was an ordinary person they would have had more value. The personal friends were under the impression that I was a mentally deranged godson who Miss Ginny might need help caging in if a certain John Watson turned up dead one day. Gruesome, that. None of them questioned the legality of the arrangement, which meant they were either very good friends or just as demented as Miss Ginny was. I thought most likely the latter. The professional stalkers had been taking turns trailing me for about a week, which was a problem. I reminded myself to get in contact before their next report came in; men like these could be easily paid off to disappear, and they knew how to disappear well enough for even Miss Ginny not to find them again.

My most alarming finding was a series of cryptic correspondence between my boss and someone called Emil. He, whoever he was, seemed to know the situation in its entirety. He was the hitman; the friend willing to take a man's life at the drop of a pin. They seemed to be on very good terms, but that was the only fact I could determine from the messages that were present.

I left the room in the exact condition I had found it in with an estimated hour to spare, just in case, and immediately got to work as I had promised. The night passed quickly, and I didn't sleep when I got in bed the next morning. My mind stayed at work, trying to find the safest way of identifying and neutralizing Emil. I couldn't let John keep his promise until the danger was gone.

Somehow, I felt that the situation was much more complicated than it seemed to be.

* * *

"What's your offer?"

"Two thousand pounds, paid in monthly increments of two hundred."

The taller of the two spat his tobacco onto the asphalt. "Make it three thousand. A down deposit of one thousand right now, and he'll never see or hear from us again."

I paused. "For three thousand, would you also do a short assignment for me?"

He watched me expectantly, leaning back against the wall of the alley.

"Turn the tables around and follow him for a week. He's in contact with a man called Emil; I'd like to know exactly who that is and how they're meeting each other, if at all. If you find nothing after a week, consider the job done. Could you do that?"

"Easy," the other one muttered, not bothering to look up from beneath his hood.

"Five days," said the first, holding out the palm of his hand. I retrieved the allotted banknotes and handed them over.

"Deal, then."

* * *

It was several days later, when I was turning in for the night, that I heard Miss Ginny call me from his office. He was clothed ordinarily enough to convince anyone that he was just your average middle-aged man, face clean and blond hair falling natural over his shoulders. He stood up as I entered and pulled his keys from his pocket.

Two things were immediately noticeable as wrong. First, he never stayed at the club this late. Second, he wouldn't be dressed in such a way if he didn't have an occasion planned for us.

"Morning tea?" he asked casually, plain lips curling into their usual smirk, which was only slightly less sickening without the lipstick. I realized that there was no question of whether or not I was tired, whether or not I actually wanted to go. It was a command, So I played along and nodded. He smiled approvingly, and, as he was brushing past me into the hallway, said, "Get your clothes on and meet me out back. Quickly, if you will."

He was waiting in his car when I came out fully clothed and mentally prepared for whatever awaited, besides a small nagging worry in the back of my mind. For a long time I thought I'd gotten over worry. It was a pointless thing, far more capable of harm than benefit.

Yet there it was, vying for control while my prudent subconscious struggled to extinguish it, tugging at the heartstrings which connected at the ends to the subtle idea of John.

Since my subconscious could not extinguish it, I spent the silent car ride shutting it out of my own accord so that when we stepped into the Dote Lounge and Eatery my mind was fully focused on the events at hand.

The Dote was an interesting hybrid of club and cafe, obviously high-end. It was more civilized than a club and more intimate than a cafe. The music was quiet and sophisticated, and from the inside one couldn't tell what time of day it was unless they looked up at the tinted slit windows lining the very top of the walls in the restaurant section, which was where Miss Ginny led me. It didn't seem right referring to him as such when he wasn't in drag, though there remained a subtle feminine grace to his speech and movements. His name was Gabriel Torque.

We were seated in a corner where we could observe everything but no one could safely observe us. There was a television at the edge of the bar, visible over Gabriel's shoulder; the place wasn't busy, so the bartender was leaned up against the sink intently watching the news while cleaning one glass over and over. The waitress served us tea and never came back.

"I feel as though I haven't had a heart-to-heart chat with you in awhile," Gabriel said, drawing my attention from the surroundings back to him. "How have you been?"

"Decent."

"Still satisfied with your employment?"

"You know very well that things have changed."

"Things? Or you?"

"When did I imply that by things I didn't mean me?"

He smiled. "Always the attitude, Sherlock. My, my. Why couldn't we just be friends?"

Couldn't. Not can't. There was purpose to his wording.

"Proper friends don't declare war," he continued. "War gets people killed. Obviously friendship is a positive thing. Speaking of which, have you seen the news lately?"

Immediately I looked at the television, just as the story of two men brutally murdered on a side street started to play out. The police had yet to find any evidence besides the bodies, which caught my attention; usually they could find some sort of lead within the first investigation, whether it was correct or not.

Images of the two men before their mutilation flashed on-screen, and I froze completely.

"War isn't much fun when you're losing, is it?" Gabriel gibed. His smirk could have sailed across the ocean.

"You wouldn't have killed them."

"Wouldn't I?"

"You're not capable of it."

"To win a war you need an army."

"Wrong. All I need is my mind." I leaned halfway over the table, fist shaking with rage against the linoleum. "And I will win."

"Is your beloved's life really a worthy price for victory?"

Suddenly everything that was at stake came into focus, and I realized I shouldn't have said that.

"Listen, Sherly. You'll give up the fight, or John will die. The little date you two went on was a gross violation of our agreement, and on top of that...you lied to me. Don't you know that hurts, darling?"

"I removed the tracking device from my phone."

"Clever of you to notice it. Those men - ah, Curtis and Brett, I think they were called; brothers - they filled me in on a bit of your activities before we killed them, but were too shaken to give me the important details. Fortunately I was thoughtful enough to place a backup tracker in your favorite shoes before you went on your little trip. Admittedly, it was a wonderful location for a first date. I hope you enjoyed yourselves, because there won't be another."

I said it even though I knew it was pointless, and my voice was shaking. "Let me see him one more time. To say goodbye."

"I'm not willing to allow that. You've lost your privilege. Approach him again at his risk."

"He'll..."

He'll what? He'll be heartbroken? He'll think he scared you off, that you don't love him? Folly. But you didn't say it, Sherlock. He doesn't know.

"He'll come back looking for me if I don't end it personally."

"I think it would be more fun to let him figure it out himself."

It was then that I had to get up and leave before a murder took place in that very building. I couldn't argue. I couldn't breathe. Where my steps had always been sure, I lumbered back to the club in fear that I would take a wrong turn.

Why did it aggravate me so when it was a challenge I might have otherwise welcomed?

A puzzle. A maze with spikes at every dead end. One life; one chance to plan the correct route. There was a way out of this, and all I had to do was think of it. Mental challenges were what I lived for. Everything else was boring.

So why, in this situation, did thinking scare me so much?

Propped up against the door of my room, body sinking to the floor of its own volition, I remembered the moment when Penrhyn Castle capsized. I remembered the sensation of weightlessness, opposite of this horrendous gravity. It wasn't coincidence. It was him. Without him I was lost.

I had to think. I had to think so I could go home, but I was terrified of the spikes, because if I made a mistake it wasn't me who would be impaled. It was him.

* * *

On the corner of the back alley rooftop it was windy and frigid. I was perched still, watching the window several stories down of the building opposite. There were shifty characters scattered about the streets far below, smoking cigarettes and patrolling. Emil's subordinates.

Shortly after the meeting at the Dote Lounge, I'd managed set up a simple mail interceptor that forwarded a copy of all incoming emails to an extra account of mine. I had followed Miss Ginny here after reading a message that said simply, 'Come to HQ tonight, third floor. I'm missing a beautiful woman.' It was the first message from Emil that had arrived since then, as well as the most informative. Miss Ginny had left the club almost immediately after it did.

I wore nothing but a black sheet. It was the only way to ensure that I wasn't being tracked. The cabbie had given me a strange look upon noticing my attire in the rearview mirror, but carried out his job nonetheless. After watching Miss Ginny enter this building through a shady back door guarded by two thugs, I'd gone on foot and started climbing, admittedly with some difficulty wearing only a sheet.

The window I was watching was the only lit window on the third floor. I would be lucky if it was the correct room, but it was worth a try.

Fifteen minutes passed before anything happened. Miss Ginny's voice was unmistakable, though I could only discern broken words and phrases. Through the half-open shutters I saw bodies collide.

So their relationship was more than platonic. In return for business favors, Emil received sexual services at his request. Judging by the disregard for privacy, his subordinates were well-informed.

Suddenly I felt something cool and metallic at my neck. Shuffling of one pair of feet. In my thoughts I hadn't been paying attention.

"I spotted you from way down there, mate, when you arrived. You think this is a good place for a peep show?" The voice was male and sardonic. Unaggressive, which was a good sign. I had a chance of getting out of this.

"I'm not sure yet. I thought I'd try out a new location," I responded. "Looks like this was an unlucky choice."

The man chuckled, and the metal eased from my neck. "You got that right. Turn around, mate."

Slowly, I stood up and faced him, still holding the sheet together at my chest. He was rugged and muscular, a few inches shorter than I. Short stubble and hair shaved close to the head. Despite the obvious brusqueness there was an elegance to his features that made him affable.

"If you're wondering about my choice of apparel, the laundry wasn't finished."

"Hm, right. Prove you're not hiding a rifle beneath that."

"You're asking me to strip?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Flatter myself? It's what I do for a living."

"Is that so?"

By the tone of his voice, he was at least bi-curious, which would be normal within a mafia led by a man who regularly copulates with a drag queen.

"It's been a long night, hasn't it? Let me take you to my club for a free lap dance."

He hesitated, though there was a smirk hiding behind his stolid expression. "What are your intentions here?"

"It's a long story," I replied languidly, stepping toward him. "I'd love to tell you, if we had the time." I came only inches from him and he didn't object, even as my fingers trailed his jaw and I leaned close enough to kiss him. Then the tip of the gun was on my chest, cold as ice through the thin sheets. I heard a click.

"We have time," he said, and suddenly I had that familiar feeling that my life was being played like a sick, selfish game.


	9. A Synonym For Love

"I hold no ill intentions toward you or any of your little gang. I have no interest in your boss. It's mine that I'm spying on."

A flicker of recognition crossed the man's face. He used the tip of the gun to push me back a couple steps, responding, "So you weren't kidding when you said you were a stripper?"

"No. And I'm the best he's got."

There was a moment of silence as he considered. I considered disarming him, but doing so would ruin the entire plan, especially if I left him alive. I had to remain undetected by the higher-ups, and that meant finding a way to collaborate with the lower-downs.

"Put that around your waist and come with me. Any funny business, and I'll shoot you without a second thought," he said, and I believed him entirely. With the black sheet hanging unevenly on my hips - proving that I was not, in fact, hiding a rifle underneath it - he pushed me in front of him and guided me down the stairs to ground level with the gun held to my back. As we approached what appeared to be the main entrance into their base, he holstered it and held up his hand as if to tell the others there was nothing to worry about. "He's with me," he mumbled as we shuffled past through the beaten metal double doors.

Directly inside there was a lobby furnished with several sofas and common decorations, like paintings and flower pots. The walls were painted a luxurious burgundy and the dark carpet was well taken care of. At the moment it was empty.

There were two hallways branching in different directions. He took me down one, up multiple flights of stairs at the end of it, and through an unadorned door. It was an ordinary bedroom. "Any funny business," he repeated warningly, just before closing the door and locking me in.

I quickly inspected the room and took precautionary measures. I moved the bathroom mirror to the far wall of the bedroom and opened the window, thereafter placing myself behind a wall where I could see the door in the mirror but whoever entered could not see me at first glance.

Fortunately, it was only the same man who entered a minute later, so there was no need to escape. He threw a bundle of clothing on the bed. "For you."

I moved from behind the wall and picked up the bundle, letting it unravel in my hands. Attire not unlike my uniform at the club - black pants, collar, and cuffs. I glanced back at the man standing in the door, who crossed his arms in indication that he wasn't moving.

"Now."

I dropped the sheet and dressed. Then he took my arm and led me out to the end of the hallway, where there was a closed black door. He grabbed my wrist to stop me there and asked, "What's your name?"

"Claude."

"Claude..?"

"Claude Birmington."

"Be smart, Claude. Your life is in our hands."

Then he opened the door and pushed me inside. There was a large sofa in the center of the room where a man was lounging with three girls in his lap. The entire back wall was a window, likely tinted on the outside, and on the side wall they were facing was a high-definition television screen with surround sound reverberating throughout the room.

From the other side, a younger man emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist and another hanging over his neck. He was the first to notice me. "Who's this?" he asked, voice kind and enthusiastic, though I didn't let it fool me for a second. The others glanced over from the sofa, and suddenly all eyes were on me.

"I brought a treat for you all. Miss Ginny's best," said the man behind me. There was a murmur of approval.

"The one on the couch - he's our weapons specialist, Neil Schreider," he said in a low voice beside my ear, now that those being introduced were in front of my eyes and memorable. "The girls from left to right are Leila, Karlie, and Rose. They're deadlier than they look, especially Rose, so take care. Last one's Christoffer Abels. The boss's son."

I assessed each one of them in turn as Leila, the blonde, shifted to watch me over the arm of the sofa. "I wonder if he's a good kisser," she cooed, glancing back at Neil and the other girls to share some sort of inside joke from earlier that night. The girls responded in giggles, and Neil in silence.

He was a veteran of the battlefield, retired to the workshops after suffering injuries to his hands and arms that impaired motor skills to the point of field inadequacy. It was likely that most of the mechanics were handled by apprentices under his supervision, due to the same injuries, but he was the one who knew what worked and what didn't, what guns needed to be deployed for what purpose.

In his eyes I saw that he hated it. His manner of retirement had gradually stolen the life from him, and he filled the void with superficial sex that would never be good enough.

Leila and Karlie were cheap whores that the organization kept around for entertainment, though they had been given some manner of basic combat training. In Rose I observed something different, something deeper, though in a moment's glance I couldn't reckon what.

Christoffer stopped in front of me - a warrior's stance - and beckoned me closer with a finger and a friendly smirk. As I approached I smelled the alcohol on his breath. He was built and scarred like a regular soldier but had the air of a leader. It was in his blood, after all.

He stumbled forward and met my lips, but the motion there wasn't drunkardly. It was passionate and gradual and completely natural, so that the receiver was left wanting more whether their thoughts agreed or not. Those types were rare. I'd been told in the beginning of my career that I was too abrupt, and had to teach myself otherwise. It was a rite of passage into employment at the club; during training I'd been forced to make out with Miss Ginny far more times than I would ever like to imagine.

Most people didn't have the capability to learn a kiss like that. It was something one was born with.

Suddenly I thought of John.

"You're in luck, Leila," said the natural kisser who was not John, but rather the heir to the hitman who was scheduled to kill John if certain circumstances came to pass. "He lives up to his name thus far. Speaking of which, your name is...?"

"Claude," I responded, trailing my finger along his jaw as I walked past. By this time, the man who'd found me on the rooftop had retreated back to the hallway and closed the door. "Of course, I'll be whoever you want me to be."

"I want you to be the dirty boyfriend who's down for threesomes," Karlie giggled. "And foursomes...and fivesomes..."

"There are six of us here, including myself," I said, meeting her at the back of the sofa. She was dressed in a shredded silver dress with hardly enough fabric to count as more than a bikini. With gentle hands, I brushed her blonde hair aside and massaged her shoulders. "I'll manage my time tonight so I can devote adequate attention to the needs of each and every one."

"Yourself included?" she asked, voice husky. Practiced. Close enough to Neil so as to have the desired effect, or so she thought. He didn't even seem interested. His eyes were glued to the action movie on-screen, and even then it looked more as though he were watching the reflection of the light on the screen rather than the movie itself.

"Of course. I'll put on a show," I answered, moving sidelong to drape my arm over the lackluster man's shoulder and kiss his cheek. He didn't react; no tension, no relaxation - nothing. He was completely desensitized to this sort of treatment. "Though I'll warn you ladies that I haven't had much experience with the opposite sex."

Rose, who was sitting closest to Neil, took my hand and guided it down the length of her body. Breast, stomach, hip, thigh, all thinly covered by a layer of black fabric. Like Karlie's, the dress was for looks only. Feel-wise, she might as well have been wearing nothing. "I'll teach you," she said to me, Brazilian accent thick. As she moved my hand toward her sensitive areas, I noticed the wedding ring on her fourth finger, shining brightly against unblemished bronze skin.

An imperfect marriage, but one that she had no intentions of giving up on. The ring was regularly cleaned but still bore the subtle indications of constant use. He had loved her and pampered her when they were married, judging by the size of the diamond. However, the health of the relationship had fallen below par recently, for obvious reasons. Neil wore the matching silver band.

She was staring straight at him even with my fingers rubbing her through her dress, taking over as I learned the rhythm that pleased her. Almost as if she were trying to make him jealous. To make him feel something, anything at all. After a minute she looked away, realizing it was pointless and letting herself fall to sensation instead.

I tilted her chin toward me with my free hand and kissed her lips. Perhaps it was out of pity. Perhaps it was just years of experience kicking in as always, applying itself to an unfamiliar gender that wasn't so different after all.

As the evening drew on, I took turns and successfully entertained all but one. When I kissed Neil, he gave me nothing in return. When I ran my fingers through his dark blonde hair and tugged and bit his neck, trying to elicit a satisfactory response, the most I achieved was a content hum and a tilt of the head. When I reached lower, he led my hand away.

"Don't feel too bad about it," Christoffer said, pulling me back onto his lap. They called him by his middle name, Erick. He had joined us all on the sofa and hogged most of my attention up to that point; I couldn't tell how much of it was the alcohol and how much was his personality. "It's hard to crack that tough exterior. Not a whore's come through here who managed it. No offense."

"None taken."

"I can tell you this, though. Once you make it through, it's worth all the effort."

Erick smiled. A sad smile. I saw Rose glance at him out of the corner of my eye, subconsciously hugging closer to Neil's arm. Then I realized that the television screen's reflection had not been empty earlier that night. Erick had been standing there, looking right back in silent understanding.

* * *

By request, I stayed the night in Erick's chambers and was there the following morning. When he awoke he stumbled to the bathroom, but emerged minutes later fresh and shameless. His voice was bright as he told me good morning and lay back down at my side.

"Sleep well, handsome?" I asked.

"As well as I could."

"No bad dreams about Neil's accident?"

"Not tonight." After a moment, he furrowed his eyebrows and looked over at me. "How'd you know about that?"

"His arms looked as though they'd been through a wrestling match with a barbed wire jungle. His fingers didn't move right." I paused before continuing, reading the bewilderment in his eyes. "I hope I'm not breaching a sensitive subject."

Erick rubbed his eyes and let out a low sigh. "No, no. I mean, it is a sensitive subject, but I don't mind. No one else will talk about it, especially Rose. She just gets angry if you try. I think she hates me especially."

"What reason would she have to hate a charming man like yourself?"

"She has reason," he said simply, and it seemed like he considered confiding in me further. He changed the subject instead. "It was a damn grenade. By some freakish luck, his body armor protected most of his chest and face, but his arms were filled with shrapnel. They almost had to amputate one."

"So he's lucky he survived."

"Yeah. He wouldn't call it luck, though. He'd call it condemnation."

Neil's line of work had depended entirely on his hands. Now he couldn't aim, couldn't build, probably couldn't even use a knife and fork at the dinner table as elegantly as he once could. I imagined having a chunk of my brain cut out of me, and for once in my life I could empathize completely.

"Was he always so...?"

"Quiet?" Erick finished for him. "Pretty much. You think he's lifeless, emotionless, and then you're caught in the right situation with him and he shows you he's got the biggest heart of anyone you've ever met."

"This is an organization of hitmen."

"Yes, and I suppose, in a way, he's sinned just as much as the rest of us. But he's got a strong sense of right and wrong. Won't accept a mission with an innocent target. Honestly, I don't know why he stays. He's the only thing right in a society founded on wrongness."

"Is that why you love him?"

He stopped, and again came that sad smile, barely playing at the corners of his lips.

"I don't know. I have to get ready and go. Meeting in an hour," he said, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

"I could come back and visit when I have downtime from the club."

"I'd enjoy that. Take it up with my accountant, Clara. First door on the left when you go into the hallway. She should set you up with a passcard so there's not trouble every time you enter the base."

Fantastic. The wonders a willing body could achieve.

"Any chance you have some clothes I could borrow?"

He reached into a drawer and threw me a predesignated stack of clothing. The maids really did the work for him. "Keep it. I've got a dozen more. There are some shoes by the door if you need them," he said. I pulled on the outfit - a simple combination of black pants and white button-down. Miss Ginny would not be at the club when I arrived back, so I could just change and dispose of these to avoid any recognition.

I met with the accountant, who told me that she would have an official passcard printed for me next time I came if I passed all the background checks. Until then, I would just have to tell the guards to hold me and call for Clara Johnson.

If the system searched for Claude Birmington, it would come up with nothing and raise permanent red flags. I cleared my throat and offered her a kind smile. "Is there any chance I could skip the background check? There are parts of my history that I would prefer to forget. I would hate to have Erick's pleasure ruined by irrelevant data that I am not and never will be involved with again."

"I'm afraid the background check is mandatory."

"And if I bring you a check for five hundred pounds?"

"Seven-fifty. I won't do it for any less."

So this was an arrangement she made fairly often. I wouldn't need to worry about her betraying me. "We have a deal."

* * *

As I came through the back door of Miss Ginny's, I caught a glance of the bar and stopped in my tracks. The club was mostly unpopulated at this time of day, but John was sitting alone in the center, looking dejected, drink in hand. Anderson had been instructed to tell him I wasn't there. This was the first time I had seen him since the date in Wales, but I suspected it wasn't the first time he'd come here in search of me and left empty-handed. He'd texted me a dozen times, called twice, and left a voicemail. Of course, it would have meant his life if I answered any of them.

I locked myself in my room before impulse could take me to him of its own will. There was a pain in my chest. A cold, clutching sensation. So this was what they meant when they spoke of heartache? The poets, that is. And here I thought such a thing didn't exist. That they were all lunatics.

Maybe they still were. Maybe I was joining them in lunacy. After the short and altogether irrational experience I'd had with it, lunacy seemed the closest synonym to love.


End file.
